An hour later, Michael stood beside Cleo in the drawing room of the Cranmers’ fashionable town house and watched her chat with two of her cousins. On arriving, he and she had done the rounds, and between them, she and Maude had introduced him to everyone there. The gathering appeared to be comprised primarily of family members of varying degrees of connection, leavened by longtime family friends. Somewhat to his surprise, males and females were present in roughly equal numbers, while the ages ranged from early twenties to two older ladies he judged to be of his grandmother’s generation.

Everyone was talking, but in polite, well-modulated tones; it was a pleasant, relatively informal gathering.

That said, he hadn’t missed the implication that Cleo was present more or less under duress, her attendance being a mandatory requirement of her living in Clarges Street unchaperoned. Yet she’d been welcomed warmly by Geoffrey and Maude Cranmer and seemed genuinely relaxed and at ease in their company and that of most of the others there. But if he wasn’t mistaken, beneath her outward equanimity, there was a thread of tension; over what, he had no idea.

“What-ho!” Anthony Cranmer, a youthful third cousin who, along with his sister, Georgia, had been chatting amiably with Michael and Cleo, looked across the room. “Looks like tea’s being served.” He glanced at Michael. “Shall we fetch the cups?”

“By all means.” With a smile, Michael waved Anthony on; after exchanging a quick glance with Cleo, he followed.

Seated behind a tea trolley, Maude was dispensing cups and saucers to the gentlemen who had dutifully gathered. Michael and Anthony chatted with others as they waited in line.

He and Anthony were returning, each bearing two cups and saucers, when a pair of middle-aged matrons swept down on Cleo. That she was their target was obvious; the pair barely noticed Georgia.

Even though he was several yards distant, Michael sensed Cleo stiffen. Nothing about her demeanor changed, yet she’d tensed.

“Well, my dear Cleome.” The woman in the lead—a Mrs. Herbert, if Michael recalled correctly—was built like a battleship and had a voice like a drill sergeant. “Dare we hope that your presence in town in this season is due to some social engagement, and you are no longer wasting your time in your father’s office?”

“On the contrary, ma’am.” Cleo’s tone was admirably even. “I’m in town because this is where the office is, and I am in charge.” She turned to Michael as he regained her side and offered her a cup and saucer. She accepted; balancing the saucer in one hand, she raised the cup and sipped.

Anthony handed Georgia her cup with an arched brow—clearly asking if she wished to move away—but Georgia’s lips set; she took her cup and determinedly held her ground.

Anthony, a small smile on his lips, settled beside his sister to observe whatever was to come.

Unhurriedly, Cleo lowered her cup and returned her attention to Mrs. Herbert. Michael was relieved to see both matrons already had saucers in hand; he didn’t want to have to offer to fetch them tea and miss the exchange.

He, too, sipped, aware that Mrs. Herbert was eyeing him and Cleo with faint puzzlement. The second matron, a Mrs. Winston, appeared a milder, less aggressive sort, but from the avidness in her gaze as she sipped and watched, she was likely to be the greater gossip.

Eventually, Mrs. Herbert said, “I had rather thought…” Then she rallied and, determined, swung her gaze to Michael. “Lord Michael, I’m sure you have an opinion on young ladies involving themselves in business affairs.”

He smiled and lowered his cup. “Indeed, I do, Mrs. Herbert. In this modern age, with a queen on the throne and her consort so interested in new developments, the world has changed, and much of what was once frowned upon is now a new frontier.” He glanced smilingly—approvingly—at Cleo. “For myself, I’m beyond grateful that Miss Hendon was at the helm of the Hendon Shipping Company when I walked through the doors, seeking information. With her understanding of the commercial world, she has been and continues to be of invaluable assistance.” He looked at Mrs. Herbert and beyond her to Mrs. Winston. With his genial façade firmly in place, he stated, “You and Miss Hendon’s wider family must be proud to count such a talented lady among your number.”

Mrs. Herbert blinked owlishly. “I…well—yes, of course.” Her brow furrowed. “I hadn’t quite thought of things in that way.”

“Would you say, my lord,” Mrs. Winston put in, “that gentlemen with an eye to, as you put it, new frontiers might, indeed, prefer young ladies whose interests, at least broadly speaking, parallel their own?”

Michael decided he approved of Mrs. Winston. “I believe, ma’am, that that’s increasingly likely to be a consideration going forward. If a lady is to support a gentleman’s endeavors, then that’s going to be much easier and more effective if the lady understands what the gentleman’s business is about.” Smiling slightly, he inclined his head. “My family has always prided itself on being at the forefront in such matters—we’ve found it pays.”

Mrs. Winston nodded in apparent seriousness, even though her eyes were twinkling. “That is certainly the Cynsters’ reputation, my lord.” She swung her attention to Georgia and Anthony, directing several questions their way, then she tapped Mrs. Herbert’s arm. “Come, Edna—let’s leave these young people to get on with their modern lives.”

With a surreptitious wink for Michael, Mrs. Winston towed a rather deflated Mrs. Herbert away.

Anthony and Georgia grinned and excused themselves.

As they moved away, Cleo sighed and glanced at Michael. “Thank you. Some, like Winnie—Mrs. Winston—are supportive, but most feel my interest in business, and even more my active involvement in running the company, is…well, not to put too fine a point on it, faintly disreputable. Very definitely unladylike and, of course, largely to blame for my unwed state.”

He shrugged. “As I said, times have changed, and such perceptions need to be updated. Progress, as the Prince Consort so frequently declares, is upon us.” A footman approached, collecting the empty cups and saucers. “Here”—Michael reached for hers—“let me relieve you of that.”

Cleo wasn’t surprised when, in groups of two and three, more of the ladies descended on her and Michael. She tensed, expecting the usual disapproving comments about her chosen occupation, but—whether distracted by Michael or alerted by Winnie—today’s queries were more curious and far less judgmental than usual.

Of course, they were also wondering why Michael—Lord Michael Cynster, no less—was there, by her side. His glib response that she was assisting him with a matter of business was accepted, but, she suspected, not actually understood. She had to admit she found that amusing.

All in all, as the minutes rolled by, she discovered she was enjoying herself—or at least, she was finding the ordeal much less trying than usual. And it was obvious who she could thank for that.

From beneath her lashes, she glanced at him, standing by her side and, with easy affability, deflecting the almost-impertinent questions. She wondered how much of what he’d said earlier reflected his personal view.

She seized a moment between interrogations to ask, “You said it was the done thing in your family for the males to find their own niche occupation-wise. What about the females? Are they encouraged to pursue interests of their own? What about your sister? What are her interests?”

He looked down, met her eyes, and allowed her to see the amusement in his. “The females of my family need no encouragement to forge their own path. They ask for no permissions, but simply claim such freedom as their birthright. As for my sister, Louisa has carved out a niche of her own choosing. She’s widely regarded as the true successor to the mantles my grandmother, the dowager duchess, and her bosom-bow Lady Osbaldestone have carried for the past forty or more years.”

When she opened her eyes wide, requesting further clarification, he grinned. “Among the haut ton, at any given time, there are ladies who are considered the final arbiters of all things, because they are ultimately the repositories of all knowledge. Of all the rumors and whispers and private dealings—everything that happens within the ton, they know and, largely, understand. They are the ultimate controllers of the machine that is the haut ton—theirs the hands on the levers. My mama, as Papa’s duchess and Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s granddaughter, is definitely a grande dame, but neither she, nor even Drake’s mama, the Duchess of Wolverstone, quite reach the pinnacle of power that my grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone long ago attained.”

“Yet Louisa does…whatever that means?”

He nodded. “I don’t understand it myself, but it’s something along the lines of ‘knowledge is power.’ You need a certain type of mind to absorb everything—every current and past fact—about the haut ton, and then keep everything clear in your mind, ready to be accessed and used as needed.” He paused, then said, “Knowing Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone, and knowing Louisa, it’s as plain as day. She will be—perhaps already is—as powerful within the ton as they.” He met her eyes. “Although it’s possible not everyone has realized that yet.”

“So that’s her…chosen occupation, as it were?”

“Yes. And it’s one she’ll do very well with.”

“That seems rather appropriate for a duke’s daughter.”

“Indeed. Just as your chosen occupation is appropriate for you. It’s founded on and builds on your inherited strengths—just as with Louisa. Just as with my cousin Lucilla, who has taken over her mother’s position as Lady of the Vale in Scotland, and as for Prudence Cynster, she sees herself as her father’s natural successor, running his stud outside Newmarket—and trust me, no one is about to argue with her over that, not even her father.”

She held his gaze for an instant, then smiled. “No wonder your views are…updated.”

He grinned, then others joined them, including Maude, and Geoffrey strolled up with several of the older men. Gradually, the group split into two—the men talking business and the ladies, somewhat to Cleo’s irritation, concentrating on upcoming family events. She would much rather have been with the men. Much rather have been by Michael’s side, gaining a better understanding of his business ideas and facilitating his interaction with Geoffrey and the others, all of whom she knew well.

The enforced separation chafed, but there was no opportunity for her to relocate, not without calling too much attention to herself.

Eventually, people started to leave. As the company thinned, Cleo found herself standing by the bow window, for an instant alone with their hostess.

Maude leant closer. “My dear,” she whispered, “I’m so thrilled for you, and your parents will be, too.” Maude’s eyes, alight, were fixed on Michael, standing with Geoffrey and several other men, all apparently engrossed in some detailed discussion.

Cleo inwardly sighed, but she’d known Michael’s presence would inevitably lead to such speculation. “He came because he was interested in meeting Geoffrey.” She made her tone definite, faintly insistent. “Michael wants to learn more about Geoffrey’s area of business.”

Maude looked at her—searched her eyes, her expression. Then Maude gripped her arm. “My dear, if furthering his understanding of the import-export business was his only interest, then a gentleman such as Lord Michael Cynster would have made an appointment to speak with Geoffrey at his club. I don’t deny Lord Michael has such an interest, but to brave a family afternoon tea for no other reason…?” Maude briefly shook Cleo’s arm, then with a twinkle in her eye, released her and said, “I think you underestimate the scope of his interests, my dear.”

So saying, Maude swanned off, leaving Cleo staring across the room at Michael. Hmm. While one part of her insisted Maude was being fanciful, her more rational side observed that Michael had spent most of his time by her side, deflecting any implied criticism of her rather than pursuing Geoffrey; it had been Geoffrey who had approached and drawn Michael aside.

More, there were Michael’s comments about gentlemen such as himself finding ladies with shared interests more supportive of their life’s ambitions, as well as his family’s acceptance that ladies, too, needed to find their own purpose in life. And, now she thought back over the recent exchanges, although he’d discouraged any queries about him having a personal interest in her, he hadn’t denied having such an interest.

Unbidden, memories of the kiss they’d shared in the dark of the previous night rose inexorably and filled her mind. Her lips tingled. She recalled the powerful, dominant emotions—the passion, the desire, the outright lust—that had captured them both and driven them…she felt the echoes even now and fought to quell a shiver.

To her, that kiss had been eye opening in its depth, its power, its promise. Had it struck him in the same way?

She couldn’t believe it had. She knew his reputation; he was an aristocratic hedonist, an experienced lover of high-born ladies. With all the ton’s beauties to choose from, why would he fix his eye on her? She really couldn’t compete.

Even if she wanted to.

Yet there he stood, having readily endured an entire afternoon of her family’s curiosity.

Was Maude right? Was she—Cleo—being willfully blind?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. But Maude was undeniably correct in one respect: Michael had to have had some reason other than his interest in business to have been moved to accompany her and willingly spend his Sunday afternoon being quizzed by her family.

Before she could dwell on what his ulterior motive might be, he and Geoffrey stepped away from the others in their group. Still chatting with each other, they strolled toward her.

Both smiling, they halted before her, and Michael said, “Mr. Cranmer—Geoffrey—and Maude are entertaining an investor acquaintance, who is visiting from Philadelphia, for dinner this evening, along with his wife and two children. Geoffrey has suggested that you and I should join the company.”

“It would be a great favor if you could manage it,” Geoffrey put in. “Mr. and Mrs. Hepworth are older than Maude and I, but that’s not the problem. It’s their children I’m concerned about—a son and daughter in their later twenties. Closer to your age than to our brood, who I would prefer not to have at the dinner table.” Geoffrey and Maude’s children were still in the schoolroom. “I confess I’m at a loss as to how to properly entertain the younger pair. However”—Geoffrey glanced at Michael—“as Cynster here is especially interested in the prospects for import-export trade with our ex-colonies, I was hoping to entice the pair of you to come to our aid.”

Michael’s brown eyes held an almost boyish plea. “It really seems too good an opportunity to pass up—to get a feel for such trade from the other side, so to speak.”

She fully understood his reasoning. In her mind, she heard again his comments regarding the benefits of ladies who knew enough to comprehend their gentleman’s business interests. Both men were waiting in transparent hope; it was clearly her decision to make. She nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m happy to assist and…” She glanced at Michael.

“And of course, I’ll escort you here tonight.” The quality of his smile, the way it lit his eyes, suggested unalloyed satisfaction.

Cleo studied that smile and had to wonder if, as Maude had suggested, he had more than one motive—more than one goal in play. He was clearly seeking insights into trade with the Americas; what other insights might he be hoping to gain?

An unanswerable question; she was quite sure he wouldn’t tell her even if she was so bold as to ask.

The others had all left. They were the last guests remaining.

Geoffrey had turned to inform Maude of his good news—that Cleo and Michael would be dining with them that evening and would assist with the younger Americans.

Cleo was still studying Michael’s face, and he was still returning her regard.

His expression altered slightly, growing more serious—his gaze more intent. Memories of that illicit kiss swirled, rising in her mind.

She blocked them out and forced herself to glance away. Her gaze fell on the clock on the mantelshelf. “Heavens—it’s almost five-thirty!” She turned to Maude. “What time?”

“Given the season and that our guests are Americans,” Maude replied, “I’ve said seven in the drawing room, and we’ll go in at seven-thirty.”

Cleo nodded and glanced at Michael. “We need to go if we’re to dress for dinner and get back in time.”

His smile returned, and he half bowed, waving her to the door. “Our carriage awaits.”

Cleo touched fingers with Maude, then stretched up and planted a kiss on Geoffrey’s cheek; of all her many relatives, she liked them the best. “Until later.”

As on Michael’s arm she walked out of the town house and down the steps to where his carriage waited, she hoped that an hour or so away from him would allow her senses to properly settle, enough for her to gain some clearer perspective on whether he might, in fact, now harbor some romantic interest in her—and, if so, what her response should be.

---

“No, not that one.” Cleo frowned at the mauve silk evening gown her maid, Jilly, was displaying for her approval. “That’s too…”

Uninspiring. Not me. It was a lovely gown, but she would never feel confident in it.

Jilly just looked at her; the mauve creation was the third gown Cleo had vetoed.

She stood in her corset and petticoats and mentally cataloged her wardrobe. As a lady who rarely went to balls and dinners—who rarely gave a thought to her appearance at all—her choices were limited.

“The green figured silk,” she eventually decided. Yes, that will do.

Jilly pulled a face and returned the mauve silk to the wardrobe. The mauve gown was new and in the latest fashion; the gown in green was more than a year old. “Are you sure, miss?” Jilly asked from the depths of the wardrobe.

Was she?

She was supposed to entertain foreigners; the Hepworths’ daughter was, very likely, far more au fait with the latest fashions than Cleo would ever be—so no point trying to compete on that score. Cleo set her chin. “Yes, quite sure.” She’d rather feel confident than fashionable, especially with Michael present.

Especially if he had a non-business—and obviously non-mission—motive for spending more time in her company.

Jilly drew the figured silk gown from the wardrobe, shook out the skirts, and held it up for Cleo’s approval.

She nodded. “Yes—that’s the one for tonight.” To appease Jilly, she added, “I need to hit just the right note.”

After Jilly, still disapproving, helped her into the gown and did up the dozens of small jet buttons holding the gown closed at the back and also down the outside of the tightly fitting sleeves, Cleo carefully sat on the stool before her dressing table and watched as Jilly took down her by-then rather straggly topknot, brushed out the heavy fall of her hair, then proceeded to refashion it into a much tighter, sleeker knot, once again anchored on the top of her head.

She spared a thought for her constant wish that she could risk a bun further back on her head, or even the looser coiffures that were currently all the rage, but her hair was heavy and silky and inevitably slipped from all such moorings and ended in an unacceptable mess. A topknot balanced properly and anchored well was more or less the only safe hairstyle for her.

A glance at the clock on her mantelpiece told her it was almost half past six. Michael had brought her home in his carriage and, as the distance between Clarges Street and the Cranmer town house wasn’t great, had said he would call for her at a quarter to seven.

The thought of him brought to mind her earlier cogitations regarding his motives. It had occurred to her that his secondary, non-business motive might have been to keep her away from Morgan’s Lane; when he’d first arrived at the house that morning, she’d certainly suspected his primary intent had been to ensure she didn’t climb into a hackney and go into Southwark to assure herself that no action involving the barrels had taken place. But if keeping her away from Morgan’s Lane had been his aim, he hadn’t needed to accompany her to the afternoon tea to achieve it. Once he’d heard of her destination, he could simply have dropped her off in South Audley Street and gone elsewhere to amuse himself—but he hadn’t.

Of course, he’d been interested in meeting Geoffrey with a view to learning more about the import-export business, but as Maude had said, it was passing strange for a gentleman of Lord Michael Cynster’s ilk to have volunteered to endure a family afternoon tea if that had been his only goal.

While Jilly fluffed out a few locks, teasing them into hanging in corkscrew curls on either side of her face, Cleo stared at her reflection, then pressed a hand to her midriff—as if she could thus calm the rising flutter of butterflies in her stomach.

It was so silly, really. She, who never bothered about what she looked like, was fretting over her dress, over her hairstyle, over what shawl and reticule she should carry.

When Jilly stepped back with a “There you are, miss! Quite a picture, if I do say so myself,” Cleo barely glanced at her maid’s latest effort; she was too busy debating what jewelry to wear.

“My pearl bobs and the long strand of pearls, I think.”

Jilly nodded in approval and hunted in her jewelry case.

While she donned the earrings Jilly handed her, Cleo thought again of that kiss. Thought of the morning, of all they’d shared over lunch, thought of that afternoon and of her less-than-settled state—and of what the evening might bring.

The butterflies fluttered more furiously.

She wasn’t sure the reaction attested to anything about him or his motives, but she was increasingly concerned as to what that reaction said about her and hers.

---

Cleo walked into Geoffrey and Maude’s drawing room on Michael’s arm. This was not her milieu, but it was, most definitely, his, and his ineffable confidence, his social ease as he guided her to greet Geoffrey and Maude by the fireplace, in some strange but wonderful fashion seemed to infect her.

The way his face had lit when he’d seen her on the stairs in Clarges Street as she’d walked down to meet him hadn’t hurt, either. His patently genuine reaction had confirmed beyond question that her decision to opt for the green silk gown had been the right one.

Buoyed and fortified by his nearness, by his relaxed assurance, she smiled and greeted the Hepworths as Maude introduced them.

On hearing Michael’s title, Mrs. Hepworth’s eyes grew round. “Lord Michael? Doesn’t that mean…?”

“Lord Michael is the second son of the Duke of St. Ives,” Cleo explained.

“Well!” Miss Andrea Hepworth exclaimed. “Fancy that! A real duke’s son.” Miss Hepworth eyed Michael measuringly.

To Cleo’s amusement, Michael edged fractionally closer to her.

“I say—is it true,” Robert Hepworth, the Hepworths’ son, asked, “that all gentlemen like you—the aristocrats—are members of White’s Club?”

Michael smiled. “Our fathers—who are all members—tend to propose us as members when we come on the town.”

“That’s when young gentlemen are around twenty or so—after they come down from, meaning graduate from, university,” Cleo explained.

Michael’s swift smile warmed her. “Indeed.” He returned his attention to the younger Hepworth. “So generally, we’re all proposed and accepted into White’s, so yes, most of us are members. However, for our generation, other clubs are more likely to enjoy our regular patronage.”

“Which other clubs?” Robert inquired.

“Boodle’s, Brooks, although both are rather tame.” Michael went on, “The current favorite is Arthur’s in St. James Street.”

“Never you mind,” Mrs. Hepworth told her son. “We’re not here for you to go gallivanting about.”

What Robert might have said to that, they were destined never to learn, as Geoffrey, who had been talking with Mr. Hepworth, turned and asked Cleo, “My dear, Mr. Hepworth is seeking to acquire good quality hardwood—the sort for furniture makers. Where in London would you suggest he look—or is there some other port that might be preferable?”

Cleo promptly replied, “The vast bulk of furniture-grade timber comes into the Pool of London. Most is placed in warehouses in the East End.” She smiled at Mr. Hepworth. “I don’t carry the list in my head, but I’d be happy to have our office send you the names and addresses of the better suppliers.”

Mr. Hepworth blinked. “Your office?”

Still riding on the wave of Michael-bolstered confidence, Cleo had no trouble keeping her smile in place. “Yes. My family owns and operates the Hendon Shipping Company. You might have heard of us.”

Mr. Hepworth’s eyes widened. “Why, indeed, I have. I believe I met one of your brothers recently—in New York.”

She nodded. “Jarred. All three of my brothers are currently on the other side of the Atlantic, pursuing various deals. That’s what they do. Meanwhile, I remain in London and manage the firm.” Before they could ask, she added, “My parents are at our estate in Norfolk—in the country. They prefer the country to town.”

Mrs. Hepworth glanced at her daughter, then said, “But when your brothers come home, I take it they will resume control and you will retire from the office?”

Cleo laughed; so did Maude and Geoffrey. Even Michael smiled at the absurdity of that suggestion.

“Oh no,” Cleo assured Mrs. Hepworth. “Running the company—managing its affairs—is my agreed role, and none of my brothers has the requisite skills to juggle all the details involved.”

Mrs. Hepworth’s confusion was writ large on her face. “I’d rather thought…” She glanced at Michael, then looked back at Cleo. “We’d assumed that young ladies of the ton were forbidden to…well, work in any capacity. To be involved in trade.”

Michael inclined his head in acknowledgment. “In our parents’ day, that was true for young ladies and all the aristocracy, male and female alike. However, these days, there’s a distinction drawn between managing an asset and working as such, or being involved in a trade. Managing investments and business is entirely acceptable, but actually working with one’s hands or drawing a salary remains beyond the pale.”

He glanced at Cleo and smiled. “For example, as I was explaining to Miss Hendon earlier today, every one of the males in my family is expected to choose some business to invest in.” He nodded at Mr. Hepworth. “Which is what’s behind my interest in the import-export business. My brother, who will inherit the title, has to learn to manage the estate—that’s his role—while I’m expected to find a similar role investing in some other sphere. Most of the younger aristocracy these days have some role in investment or business, or are actively engaged in managing some asset. That’s not only acceptable now but also financially desirable, of course. And in some instances, those roles in business management are, indeed, being claimed by our young ladies—as is the case with Miss Hendon.”

All four Hepworths had been listening avidly. Michael smiled easily. “Times have changed, and the English aristocracy have a very long history of successful adaptation.”

Mr. Hepworth exchanged a glance with his wife. “Well! I have to say that’s an immensely enlightening piece of news.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Hepworth turned to Maude and asked about Almack’s and whether there was any chance of visiting while they were in town.

Miss Hepworth tugged Cleo’s sleeve, and when Cleo glanced her way, asked, “Was there anything special you had to learn to take charge of your family’s business?”

Cleo arched her brows. “Arithmetic. And a sound understanding of geography helps, but…why do you ask?”

Miss Hepworth looked at Robert, who volunteered, “I’m dreadful at sums, and anything to do with finance goes straight over my head. Of course, Papa wants me to take over after him, but I’d much rather do what it sounds like your brothers do—travel and meet people and negotiate business. I’m good at that.”

“And I’m good at sums and finance,” his sister put in. “And I don’t mind staying home in Philadelphia.” She glanced at her parents, who had drawn a little away and were talking to Geoffrey and Maude. “But until now, Mama—and Papa, too, but mainly Mama—wouldn’t hear of me even helping out at the office, much less learning how Papa manages things.”

Miss Hepworth’s eyes lit, and she beamed at Cleo and Michael. “I can’t tell you how helpful and encouraging learning of your roles—both of your roles and all you’ve described—has been. Now…” She glanced at her brother.

Robert Hepworth nodded decisively. “Now, we’ll go to work on them. Clearly, if it’s socially acceptable for both of you to engage in managing investments or a business, then it’s time Philadelphia society adapted, too.” Robert grinned. “I can just imagine using that notion as a lever. If the English can see the sense, then…”

Michael chuckled. “I haven’t yet visited America, but from all I’ve gathered, that should go a long way toward winning your point.”

The butler appeared at that moment to announce that dinner was served.

Geoffrey offered Mrs. Hepworth his arm, and Maude accepted Mr. Hepworth’s, and in congenial vein, Cleo and Michael followed behind with Miss Hepworth—“Please, call me Andrea”—and Robert.

The rest of the evening was largely spent in a broader and more varied discussion of business interests than Michael could possibly have hoped for. Andrea and Robert were as eager as he to elicit their father’s and Geoffrey’s insights, and although he suspected Cleo already knew much of what was discussed, she nevertheless drank in every word and was frequently instrumental in steering the conversation in new and revealing directions. Between the four of them, they questioned and interrogated the older men as course followed course.

Later, when they were once more in the drawing room and the teacups were handed around, while Mrs. Hepworth and Maude sat and chatted about social matters, the rest of the company congregated before the hearth and continued their exploration of the current state of the import-export trade and touched on various possibilities for the future. It was plain that all six of them—Geoffrey, Mr. Hepworth, Robert, Andrea, Cleo, and Michael—were enjoying themselves to an extent and in a way none of them had anticipated when they’d first walked into the room.

When it finally came time to call an end to the evening, Mr. Hepworth looked at his children and, without any prompting, humphed and said, “Well, you two—when we get back to Philly, we’ll see.”

Robert beamed. Andrea looked as if she’d just been handed her dearest wish on a platter.

With sincere thanks all around, the Hepworths took their leave. Michael, with Cleo beside him, walked into the front hall with Geoffrey and Maude to see the Americans on their way.

With his coat on and his hat on his head, Mr. Hepworth turned to Michael. “If you’re ever in Philadelphia, my lord, please do call on us. I’d be happy to introduce you”—Hepworth paused to raise his hat to Cleo and smile benignly—“both of you to the gentlemen of my circle.”

Michael grasped and shook Hepworth’s proffered hand.

Then the older man took Cleo’s hand and bowed surprisingly elegantly. “A pleasure, my dear. I’ve learned a lot tonight—and not all of it about import-export.”

Cleo laughed. “Indeed, sir.” She glanced at his family. “I believe we’ve all taught each other quite a lot.”

After the Cranmer carriage had rumbled off, ferrying the Hepworths to their hotel, Michael and Cleo took their leave. His thank-yous to Geoffrey and Maude were heartfelt. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in an age.”

Geoffrey clapped him on the back. “The pleasure, my lord, was ours.” Geoffrey met Michael’s eyes. “I believe I’m correct in stating that we all benefited in unexpected ways this evening.”

Michael held Geoffrey’s faintly challenging gaze, then wryly smiled, inclined his head, and followed Cleo, now wrapped in her cloak, out of the door and down the steps.

---

Clarges Street wasn’t far; Cleo had opted to walk home, and after they’d arrived in South Audley Street, Michael had sent Tom and the carriage back to Grosvenor Square.

Now, beneath a cloud-screened sky, they ambled along well-lit streets, through soft shadows and into successive cones of light cast by the streetlamps. By Mayfair hours, it was relatively early. Carriages rattled past, and there were others, like them, taking advantage of the clement weather to stretch their legs.

“That was”—Cleo raised her head—“a surprisingly pleasant evening. I hadn’t expected the Americans to be such good company—to be so open-minded. Or for them to have such…parallel interests.”

Michael smiled and paced beside her. “Learning of your role with Hendon Shipping seems to have galvanized Andrea and Robert into pushing for and seizing the sort of life each of them wants. And Mr. Hepworth seemed ready to recalibrate his expectations.”

Cleo flashed him a grin. “Mrs. Hepworth wasn’t so pleased, but I suspect she’ll come about.” She looked ahead. “If I ever visit America, I’ll be interested in learning how they’ve all managed.”

You could travel there with me. Michael didn’t utter the words, but the thought more than appealed. “I wouldn’t mind observing that myself—in a few years, once they’ve had time to settle into their new roles.”

“Hmm.”

They paced on; although they continued to exchange comments on various business matters—something he couldn’t imagine discussing with any other lady—with every yard they walked from South Audley Street, the pleasant ambiance of the evening receded, and eventually, the mission resurfaced, reclaiming their minds.

After several seconds of silence, Cleo glanced his way. “If anything had happened in Morgan’s Lane, would your men have come to find you?”

He nodded. “Tom knew where I was, and I gave orders to be informed immediately.” He met her gaze. “So we can conclude that the evening has passed quietly in Morgan’s Lane, and the barrels are still in one of the three warehouses.”

“Will you—or rather your men—continue to keep watch?”

He looked ahead. They were walking along Curzon Street; the corner of Half Moon Street lay to their right. The intersection with Clarges Street wasn’t far away, and the Hendon town house was only a few doors from the corner. “Yes, we’ll continue our watch. But as I mentioned before, my men reported that the entire area has been very quiet all day.” He’d filled her in on the lack of activity during the drive to the Cranmers’ house. “And given it’s already past eleven o’clock and it is Sunday night, I think it’s unlikely any attempt to move the barrels will be made before tomorrow morning.”

“Assuming that the barrels are, indeed, still in Morgan’s Lane.”

He nodded. “Assuming that.”

When they reached the pavement before the Hendon house, they halted and faced each other.

Cleo looked into Michael’s face. Despite all her questions regarding him and her, as her eyes met his, the dominant feeling that assailed her was, put simply, connection. Something far deeper, broader, and more solid than mere attraction, although that remained, steady and strong. They’d both avoided mentioning the kiss—that stunningly revealing kiss they’d shared twenty-four hours before. Throughout the day, they’d both held back—reined in—the resulting reactions, but now, as they stood a foot apart on the pavement in Clarges Street, reaction surged, pushed free of all restraint, and bloomed.

Between them, that ineluctable connection snapped taut.

She managed to find her voice. “Thank you for escorting me home.”

As if I could have done anything else. Michael looked at her and scrambled to find his usual debonair façade. He tipped his head and, his eyes still locked with hers, attempted a rakish smile. “The pleasure, I assure you, was all mine.”

Her lips curved at the glib words; she thought them superficial, insubstantial—just polite verbiage. He was conscious of a sudden urge to assure her—vehemently—that the sentiment was entirely sincere. Then to taste that smile, to cover her lips with his and sip…

He was drowning in her green-and-gold eyes. He felt a tug—from his heart to hers.

As if she felt it, too, she swayed toward him…but then caught herself.

She tried to pull back, to step back—he saw that in her eyes—but she couldn’t seem to manage it.

He dragged in a breath, but with his gaze still captured, with his entire being still focused on her, despite knowing he should, he couldn’t get his feet to step back. To move away from her.

They were on the open street, with carriages passing and others on the pavement not that far away. They couldn’t give in to the sudden compulsion that had clearly seized them both.

His protective instinct came to his—their—rescue. He heard himself say, “I don’t suppose you’ll agree to leave investigating the warehouses to me, even if I promise to keep you apprised of any and all developments?”

She blinked, and the spell was broken. She refocused on his face, her gaze direct and determined. “No.” She breathed in and eased back, now-familiar stubbornness investing her expression.

He felt the heightened tension between them subside—and just for one instant, he considered throwing caution to the winds, hauling her into his arms, and kissing her… Then reality impinged, and regretfully, he jettisoned the notion; God alone knew what might happen, but regardless, she wouldn’t be dissuaded from further participating in the mission. He felt his features set. His voice hard, he said, “Very well. I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock.”

Her gaze grew distant, then she shook her head. “No—better make it half past eight.” When he arched his brows, she added in explanation, “The sooner we find out if the barrels are still there, the happier we’ll both be.”

He couldn’t deny that.

Cleo read acceptance in his eyes, then he dipped his head.

“Eight-thirty, then.”

He raised his head, and their gazes met.

Again, she felt a welling compulsion to step forward—into his arms, into the unknown. The impulse surged inside her; her eyes widened as, looking into the dark chocolate brown of his eyes, she realized the same impulse was riding him, too. Equally strongly.

But then he slid his hands into his pockets, angled his head in farewell, and stepped back. “Until tomorrow.”

She forced herself to straighten, to hold her head high and draw in a breath, then incline her head in response. Then she turned and climbed the steps to the door. She rang the bell, then looked back.

He was standing on the pavement, watching her.

“Good night,” she said. Then Morris opened the door, and she went inside.

Michael watched the door shut. He stared at the glossy panel for several seconds, then turned on his heel and started walking northward, toward Grosvenor Square and his bed.

The October night wrapped cold about him, yet even so, given the fevered nature of his prevailing, persistent, and insistent dreams, he seriously doubted that enjoying a “good night” lay in his immediate future.