Wallowing in the warmth beneath the mound of coverings, Aslyn raised her hands over her head and stretched, determined to shake off her irritation with Kip. It wasn’t fair. Not fifteen minutes after he’d delivered her home last night, he had pressed a kiss to her forehead before making his excuses and heading out—­most certainly to indulge in an assortment of vices. Gambling, drinking, possibly whoring. While everyone expected them to wed, he’d not announced his intentions, so she supposed she couldn’t get distressed about his dalliances.

In return, he couldn’t be distraught that Mick Trewlove had made a place for himself in the corner of her mind. Never before had she been so curious about a man. How had he gained his wealth? Was he a man of leisure? If she removed his gloves, would she discover his hands were rough and scarred from years of labor? She hadn’t asked Kip any questions about the man because she’d been taken aback by her interest in him. Kip would have no doubt found it untoward.

Proper ladies didn’t make inquiries about improper men. Instinctually she knew Mick Trewlove was improper—­in spite of his obvious kind regard toward his sister. He had studied Aslyn far too intently and intensely. No man had ever looked at her as though he were contemplating kissing her from her head to her toes.

Flinging back the covers, she scrambled out of bed, rushed over to the nightstand and splashed cold water on her face. What was it about the man that had such wicked thoughts bursting forth as though they were perfectly normal? Never before had she experienced the sort of musings that caused her to grow so warm. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t exorcise him from her thoughts. Nor was there anyone with whom she could discuss these wayward thoughts.

She couldn’t make inquiries of the duchess because then she might have to explain about talking with commoners, strangers at that, and inviting them to watch the fireworks with them. Kip and she had agreed they’d not mention the brother and sister who had crossed their paths the night before. If the duchess thought Aslyn was carrying on conversations with people not listed in Debrett’s, whose lineage could not be traced back generations, she’d no doubt restrict her ward’s outings even further, and they were few and far between as it was, with barely any liberty at all.

She splashed more water on her face, then grabbed the towel to dry it. When the door opened, she gave a start as though caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“I didn’t realize you were already awake, m’lady. You didn’t ring for me.”

Nan tended to slip in and draw back the curtains, allowing the sunlight to gently awaken her mistress. “I’ve only just arisen.”

Closing the door, the servant looked rather guilty doing it. Then she approached cautiously. “I have something for you, m’lady,” she whispered, as though the walls had ears. “A gentleman knocked on the servants’ entrance near the crack of dawn. He told the lad who answered he needed to speak with Lady Aslyn’s maid. So I was fetched. He gave me this, said it was for you and I was to tell no one about it.”

In her palm rested a small leather box. Aslyn couldn’t quite bring herself to reach for it. “What did he look like?”

“Like the sort who should come in through the front door. Finely tailored clothing. Boots polished to a shine. Well groomed. Dark hair. A full beard. It was too dark for me to get a good look at his eyes, and his hat shadowed them anyway. He held himself with confidence, but I had the fleeting thought if I were someone up to no good I’d never want to run across him in a darkened alley.”

Even though she’d already deduced who he was, she asked, “He didn’t give his name?”

“No, m’lady. I asked for it, but he merely smiled—­and it was a rather wolfish one at that if I’m to be honest, set my heart to fluttering it did—­and went on his merry way. I don’t think he wanted it known.”

Aslyn was surprised to find her fingers trembling slightly when she took the box. Although she kept no secrets from her maid, she still turned away and walked over to the sitting area to give herself a modicum of privacy. When she opened the box, she was greeted with a folded bit of foolscap. Lifting it out, she gasped at what lay beneath: the most beautiful cameo she’d ever seen. The background was a pale blue that matched the shade of her eyes almost perfectly. She unfolded the note and read the words scrawled with a masculine hand: In appreciation for your kindness to my sister.

No name, no initials, no verification as to the identity of the person who’d written it, but then she didn’t need verification. The hints abounded. She wondered how he’d acquired a gift so quickly. Was it something he’d had on hand for someone else? A treasured family heirloom? Had he located a jeweler who would open his shop in the wee hours?

Her curiosity regarding Mick Trewlove only increased with the arrival of his gift. She had no idea how to locate him, to rebuff the inappropriate gesture—­­or how to send him an appropriate letter expressing her appreciation should she decide to keep it. He’d taken the choice out of her hands. She didn’t know whether to be irritated or grateful.

She slipped the note back into the box and closed it. Clutching it close to her breast, she strolled over to her vanity. “You’re to say nothing of this, Nan.”

“I never would, miss. Think the gent would find me in my sleep and strangle me.”

Opening a small drawer, Aslyn carefully placed the gift inside. “I don’t think he’d do any such thing, but I don’t want to cause the duchess any distress. She certainly wouldn’t approve of any gifts being delivered to me by a gentleman who hasn’t made his intentions clear.” Not that making his intentions clear would get him anywhere. Her guardians would never allow her to be associated with a commoner, much less marry one. Although she absolutely wasn’t considering marrying him. Her life had been planned out, and she’d been groomed to one day take on the mantle of duchess. Kip was her destiny. He had been since she was a young girl. Even her parents had agreed he was the one she’d marry. They’d named the Duke and Duchess of Hedley as her guardians to ensure their desires for her came to fruition.

An hour later, Aslyn entered the breakfast dining room to find the duke still at the table, enjoying his creamed eggs, ham and other assorted offerings while reading his newspaper. The duchess took her first meal of the day in her bed, encouraged Aslyn to do the same, but she found it too quiet and lonely.

The duke stood. “Ah, what lovely company I have joining me this morning.” He’d said the same thing the first time she’d snuck out of the nursery at the age of nine and insisted on having breakfast at the big table. He’d indulged her that day, and every one since, creating a little ritual between them that she would miss when she moved into her own residence.

Walking over to him, she lifted up on her toes and bussed a kiss over his freshly shaven cheek. “I wouldn’t miss out on starting my day with my favorite gent.”

“Did you enjoy your visit to the pleasure gardens last night?”

“I did. The music, the entertainments, the fireworks—­they were all amazing. I’m hoping to convince Kip to take me again in the very near future.”

Spinning around, she headed to the sideboard and prepared her plate, choosing the creamed eggs, but opting for bacon rather than ham, some banana slices and strawberries. As she approached the table, a footman pulled out the chair for her. She settled into place and waited as the servant settled the napkin over her lap. Waited a moment longer as he poured her tea. She added three lumps of sugar and stirred her tea, distantly aware of the duke finally retaking his seat.

“What did you enjoy most?” Hedley asked.

Meeting Mick Trewlove. “The fireworks, I should think.”

“I’ve heard they’re quite the thing.”

“You should take the duchess to see them.”

A sadness washed over his features. The duchess seldom left the residence, never attended balls or soirees. Aslyn suspected they might have never left the country estate if it were not for the fact a lady of her position should have Seasons, even if her path to the altar was set. She needed to begin establishing her place in Society so she could be a proper wife and see to her duties. “I shall speak with her about it,” he said quietly.

Yet Aslyn knew as well as he did the discussion wouldn’t bear fruit. She wondered if Kip would be as patient with her idiosyncrasies as the duke was with his wife’s. She knew the couple loved each other deeply. It wasn’t unusual to find them sitting in the garden in the evenings holding hands. Aslyn suspected there was nothing for which the duchess could ask that the duke would not give her.

“What are your plans for the day?” he asked.

“A few morning calls. I have a fitting at the dressmaker’s at half two. I’m hoping my gown will be finished in time for the Collinsworth ball next week.”

“The duchess and I shall pass on that one, I think. Collinsworth has become a bit intolerable since he gained his heir.” Always he made an excuse for their never going out, as if after all this time justifications were still needed.

“Aren’t all men intolerable once they gain their firstborn son?” she asked teasingly.

“We men do have an odd sense regarding what should count as an accomplishment.”

Sometimes she wondered why the duke and duchess hadn’t acquired a spare or any other children, but it was the sort of subject about which a lady of quality did not make inquiries. Kip, only twenty-­eight, had come relatively early in their marriage, the duchess young enough to bear more children. Perhaps she’d suffered some sort of injury during the birthing—­another subject forbidden to discuss. When it came to the body and all its mysteries, it seemed she would be relegated to uncovering the truths herself, through personal experiences rather than knowledge shared by someone who possessed all the answers.

“Is Kip joining us for dinner this evening?” the duke asked.

“Yes, I believe so.” He leased a town house not too far away. Three years ago, at the age of twenty-­five, he’d announced he was old enough to have his own residence, that a young man sowing his oats shouldn’t reside under his parents’ roof. Another bit of unfairness that sometimes irked. Although she dearly loved the duke and duchess, she did occasionally find it an inconvenience not to have her own place, but then young ladies of her station didn’t move out of their parents’ or guardians’ residence until they were wed and could move into their husband’s. She wondered if Miss Trewlove lived with her parents or if, as a commoner, she was free to live wherever she wished. Certainly her brother appeared to have the means to give her anything her heart desired.

Aslyn considered asking the duke if he’d ever heard of Mick Trewlove, but that might lead to a conversation more awkward than discussing bedding and birthing. Besides, she’d be breaking her promise to Kip to keep last night’s encounter between them. With a sigh, having eaten very little, she shoved aside her plate. “Well, I suppose I should see about getting dressed for my outing.”

The duke’s brow furrowed. “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.”

Because her stomach knotted anytime she thought of Mick Trewlove.

“Are you unwell?” he asked.

Offering him a soft smile, she shook her head. “Just not very hungry this morning. I’ll make up for it this evening.”

“See that you do. I don’t want you wasting away.”

She laughed lightly. “If it hasn’t happened by now, it’s not going to happen.” She’d always been far too slender, no matter how much she ate. The duchess, as well as a few other ladies who had known her mother, had long ago informed her that she’d taken after her mother in height and build. While she found comfort and a bit of melancholy joy in knowing she resembled her mother, she did sometimes fear she didn’t give a man enough to hold on to—­that perhaps Kip’s lack of overtures stemmed from not being physically drawn to her, no matter how much he loved her.

“I’ll see you at dinner.” Shoving back her chair, she stood.

“Two footmen, two maids.”

Sighing, she forced herself to smile. “Always.” They were so overprotective. She supposed she couldn’t blame them. They’d become responsible for her when her parents had died in a railway accident. Frightened, confused and grieving, she’d had it confirmed that life was precarious, never to be taken for granted. The duchess had reinforced that lesson with her constant worries.

Two hours later, she found herself being escorted into a solicitor’s office, a detour on her way to the dressmaker’s that she had decided at the last minute before leaving the residence was necessary.

“Lady Aslyn.”

“Mr. Beckwith,” she said with a soft smile as the gentleman rose from his leather chair behind his desk. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone with kinder eyes. After her father’s passing, he’d handled the earl’s business affairs, seen his estate settled and read his will. Although only seven at the time, she still remembered the gentleness with which he’d promised her that everything would turn out well in the end. He’d given her a rag doll and told her to squeeze it tight whenever grief overtook her. All these years later, she still had moments when she hugged the frayed doll.

“Please, have a seat,” he said. “Shall I send for tea?”

“No, thank you. I shan’t be here long.”

He waited until she was settled in the plush chair before taking his seat and clasping his hands on the oak desk. “How might I be of service?”

“I was wondering if you know a gentleman who goes by the name of Mick Trewlove.”

He studied her for a moment, and she fought not to squirm. The spectacles that rested on the bridge of his slender nose enlarged his blue eyes and made it seem that he could peer directly into someone’s soul. “I am familiar with him,” he finally said very quietly and flatly, giving nothing away regarding what his opinion of the man might be.

“He struck me as the sort of man who—­if he found himself in need of a solicitor—­would come to you, as he would no doubt be willing to pay for the best London had to offer.”

“You flatter me.”

She knew he dearly wanted to ask how she had become acquainted with Mick Trewlove, but if Mr. Beckwith was known for anything at all, it was for being discreet and respecting others’ privacy. “Would he happen to be a client of yours?”

He tilted his head slightly. “I am not at liberty to disclose who my clients are.”

The discreetness that had brought her to him was a deterrent to her gaining what she wanted. “I don’t suppose you would happen to know where his office or home is located.”

Clearing his throat, he leaned back. “If he were a client, it would be inappropriate for me to share any information I have regarding him. Just as I would not share any particulars regarding you.”

“If I were to leave a box on the corner of your desk, do you think it might magically make its way to him?”

“If I don’t know where he is, I am certain I could find someone who does.”

“Then I shall leave it in your care.” She removed the small leather box from her reticule and carefully set it on the edge of his desk.

“Is there a message that should accompany it?”

“No, I think the message will be quite clear when he receives it.” She rose. Mr. Beckwith shoved himself to his feet. “I appreciate you not asking questions.”

“My role in life is to be of service—­not to judge.”

“I knew I could count on your discretion. Thank you, Mr. Beckwith. I hope you have a good day.”

“Lady Aslyn, every day I am alive is a good day.”

Strolling from the office, she wondered if Mick Trewlove was having a good day, as well.

She’d bloody well returned his gift. Charles Beckwith had arrived at Mick’s office without an appointment and delivered it himself, along with an admonishment in his gaze: Lady Aslyn was not to be bothered by the likes of Mick Trewlove.

He had thought the earl would be a challenge, but he’d never expected it of the lady. When he set his sights on a woman, he generally enjoyed her before the night was done. He’d known an aristocratic woman would take a bit more cajoling and enticing. He’d thought dangling trinkets before her, especially when they were procured in the middle of the night from a jeweler who owed him, was the key.

He’d been wrong.

Standing at the office window on the top floor of his hotel, gazing out on the small patch of London that belonged to him, he watched as the workers carted lumber, hammered planks into place, stacked bricks, attached roofs, inserted glass. The shops would bring more business to the area, more customers to his hotel. The lodgings he planned to build beyond would bring in rents from those who worked in the shops, those he would hire to keep the area clean, those who would see to the various tasks that most people didn’t even consider.

In his youth, he’d worked as a dustbin boy and then a dustman, selling the soot and dirt he collected to brick-­makers—­until he’d been able to afford his own brick and mortar business. London was expanding quickly. There was good money to be had in bricks. Once he had the bricks, he began building. His life had been one small step leading to another, until he was able to permanently wash off the dust. But it wasn’t enough.

He wanted to be acknowledged as the better son, to prove his worth was more than that of the legitimate spawn. He wanted his father to know he had vastly misjudged his bastard’s potential, to regret he had ever sentenced him to death.