Bocka Morrow’s tiny tavern was nestled in the heart of the fishing district close to the docks with its sullied white paint peeling from the siding, and the good cheers and lighthearted conversations floating outside to where Silas stood waiting for the groom to take his horse. The salty sea breeze of the waterfront pushed the clouds toward the far horizon and away from Tetbery Estate. And within the dim confines of the local public house, The Crown & Anchor, Silas suspected he’d find what he sought—at least for the moment.

Everything about the lowly tavern screamed for Silas to beware.

But what was a man to do when he was in a foreign fishing village, a long way from home, and in need of lodging?

The Mermaid’s Kiss had been full to brimming with the ton coming from far and wide to witness his cousins’—Lady Tamsyn and Lady Morgan—wed, and he’d been turned away outright. Which was likely preferable, as his coin would gain him much more at The Crown & Anchor anyways.

He only hoped it wasn’t a knife in his back or bed mites under his skin.

A lad ran forth from the side of the tavern, his hair tussled and in need of a trim, his shirt with more holes than the cheese Silas had dined on the previous evening, and no boots to speak of. The elements alone in Bocka Morrow were enough to have Silas thanking the heavens above he’d brought his thick wool coat as opposed to only his finely tailored jackets. The boy was certain to catch his death and be in need of a physician before long.

“Welcome back, m’lord,” the groom called with a toothy grin. “Old Havers be give’n away a right fine gin in the tavern.”

Silas wanted to ask what the boy knew of “right fine gin”—but the question went unspoken in favor of a far more vital one. “Where are your boots and coat, lad?”

The groom’s eyes widened before taking in Silas’s attire from head to toe, his stare riveted on his gleaming Hessians. “Life ain’t all ‘bout fancy boots and toff coats, m’lord.”

“That is true, but one cannot discover what life is all about when they are taken low by influenza.” He stopped short of adding, “my boy.” When the lad said nothing in return but took the reins from Silas, he dug into his pocket and extracted two shillings—not an exorbitant amount of money by any means, but enough to find a pair of boots—and tossed them to the boy. He did not miss a beat as he swiped them from the air.

“What this be for?” he called, opening his palm to see the shine of the coins. “Two bobs…”

“Boots, lad,” Silas called, starting for the tavern door before the boy could argue at the offer. “It is a bounty for taking good care of my horse because I would not have the guilt on my head if he stepped on your toe and cut it clean off. Find a pair of sturdy boots as soon as you unsaddle my mount.”

Silas doubted the boy would use the shillings properly, though he could not give up all hope at a satisfactory outcome for the groom. He was young and agile—and if he managed to starve off frostbite from his extremities, he could certainly be more than a mere stable hand at a seedy waterfront tavern.

With a sigh, Silas entered the crowded public room; the smells of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and fish greeted him more welcomingly than Lady Mallory and her aunt. Perhaps he was better suited to this lowly tavern then his rightful place at Castle Keyvnor.

Bloody hell, it had been embarrassing to hide the fact that he was not residing at the castle during his stay in Bocka Morrow—nor even at The Mermaid’s Kiss—from Lady Mallory. Silas was uncertain what bothered him more, lying to his intended or actually having to stay at the god-awful waterfront public house when his family lived so near.

Finding a place at the high bar, he took a seat on an empty stool and nodded to the barkeep, who immediately poured him an ale without asking what he wanted. The glass arrived smudged and unclean, but the ale was adequate.

His day hadn’t gone as planned. Not at all.

His first meeting with Lady Mallory had been disastrous, to say the least. The girl had nearly fainted at the sight of him, and her aunt had stared daggers the entire visit. His betrothed was comely, in an innocent maiden sort of way, demure, and reserved. Besides her moment of lightheadedness that had nearly called for salts, she seemed relatively ordinary. Certainly, her cloudy, grey eyes were worrisome, but nothing else caused his hair to stand on end.

Now, she could return to her family home, and he could go about his business.

At the moment, Silas waited for his business to summon him. He had no doubt his aunt would send for him at some point, if for no other reason than pure curiosity. Until that happened—and he prayed it was before Slade arrived in Bocka Morrow—Silas would prioritize his needs: meal, drink, and sleep.

Unfortunately, with the added coin given to the groom, his funds were thinner than before.

Glancing about the room, Silas envied a group of men sitting around a low wooden table, its surface scarred but ladened with fresh, crusty bread, poached fish, and cheeses. His stomach rebelled at the sight. For now, ale in a filthy mug would have to do.

He must needs save his coin for his evening meal and a proper bath before journeying to the castle to meet his long-lost family.

The warm ale slid easily down his throat to appease his stomach, and Silas attempted to block out the carousing and laughter of the tavern’s other occupants. He wondered if anyone in Bocka Morrow actually earned a decent living as they were all solidly in their cups at such an early hour of the day.

At the thought, Silas drained his glass and signaled for another.

If he were going to crash and burn—with both his betrothed and his mother’s family—he might as well be deep in his cups to soften the impact.

The form in which the impact would come was unknown; however, there was no doubt he’d survive it. Lady Mallory could discover he was a pauper without familial ties in England. Or, debatably worse, his aunt would give him the cut direct and banish him from Castle Keyvnor. Either way, the scandalous information would make the gossip rags, and the Marquess of Blandford would call off the betrothal—as he had every right to do. Whether Silas wanted to admit it or not, he and Mr. Peabody were deceiving the marquess, even if only by lies of omission.

In the end, Silas would have no option but to return to his estate, financial ruin continuing to loom over him, and without proper familial ties.

Slade’s mounting gaming debts to worry over only increasing his need to escape the impact of failure.

There was always Paris, he reminded himself.

Yet, fleeing back to France came with a completely different set of complications—namely, his mother.

Something nudged his shoulder, causing ale to splash over the rim of his glass and splatter the bar top.

“My apologies,” Silas mumbled to the barkeep as the man wiped away the mess.

He didn’t glance over his shoulder to see who’d disturbed his brooding, but the distraction was welcome. His mind had been heading toward dangerous territory.

Very dangerous territory, indeed.

“Come on now, sweet meat,” a gruff voice crowed. “Ye come sit on Pa’s lap.”

Laughter flared throughout the room; some deep and hearty while others far more hesitant with apprehension.

“No.” The female reply was spiked with discomfort but held a measure of finality. “I be here ta work, not sit on ye lap.”

“Oh, ye be work’n if ye sit, I promise ye that, wench.”

The man’s word started another round of chuckles at Silas’s back, and he closed his eyes against the urge to step in. This was not his town, and not his fight. The barmaid could take care of herself—women in her profession were resilient and held a measure of cunning most men never gained. If that failed, the barkeep would put a stop to the harassment.

If word spread that he was causing problems, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong in town, the Countess of Banfield would have all the more reason to turn him away. He needed to remember his plight was not only to help his lot in life but also that of his siblings. Sybil needed proper sponsorship when she made her debut next Season, and Slade, he needed to be shackled to a solid stone wall in the basement of the castle. Because if he kept up with the mounting gaming debts, Silas would need more connections in London than even the countess could provide to keep his twin safe once his debts were called in.

“I said no!”

Again, something knocked his shoulder, giving Silas no option but to assess what was transpiring behind him.

The instant he turned, he saw a brawny, bearded man, recently off a fishing vessel judging by his smell, slipping a hand into the serving maid’s bodice. No one jumped to her aid. In fact, the barkeep turned the other way, and the tavern patrons were suddenly very interested in their cups and meals.

He should have entered The Crown & Anchor and sought his room after returning from Tetbery Estate; however, proper conduct was proper conduct, no matter where you lived or who your relations were.

No man had the right to set hands on a woman if she said no.

End of story.

Having raised his younger sister—and in many ways, his own mother—Silas adamantly refused to support the mistreatment of women, be it his sister or a perfect stranger. Barmaid or princess. Orange seller or opera singer.

Silas pushed from his stool and stepped before the man, separating the pair. If the woman was smart, she’d slip from the room and be well hidden until after Silas disposed of the offending man.

“Get outta me way, you toff.” The man’s chest puffed in an attempt to intimidate Silas. “Mind ye own lot.”

Silas shook his head, feigning regret, and placed his hand on the aggressor’s shoulder. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

With a firm squeeze on the man’s collarbone, Silas guided him toward the door.

“Let me go, ye brute.”

“One would categorize you as the brute, sir.” The maid scurried out of the common room, and Silas pushed the man out the door and into the early afternoon sun. “I think it best you seek out your home and be done at The Crown & Anchor for the day.”

The man appeared ready to argue, but his lips clamped shut, causing the vein in his forehead to throb. If he threw a punch in Silas’s direction, it would surely hurt like the dickens.

The villager, clearly a seaman from the stains on his trousers, would not be so foolish as to assault a stranger.

Silas blocked the door to the tavern, crossing his arms over his chest, and waited for the man to depart either on foot or horseback. However, he only stood staring at Silas, his fists clenching and unclenching at this sides as his face turned molten red.

“Do not be a buffoon—“

The fist came out of nowhere. One moment, Silas watched the thing clenched at the man’s side, and the next, it landed solidly in Silas’s gut. His only saving grace was that the short distance separating him and his opponent was not wide enough for the man to gain any momentum for his punch. The second swing came at Silas’s head, and he ducked with a swiftness he hadn’t known he was capable of. The man’s fist traveled harmlessly through the air.

Unbelievable. What had transpired in his life over the past six months that Silas went from the museums and art galleries of Paris to the waterfront taverns in the wilds of Cornwall—not to mention having a drunken fool coming at him with wide-eyed rage?

Speaking of wide-eyed, raging fools, the man stumbled back when his fist connected with only air but came back quickly, teetering forward as he lunged at Silas once more.

Silas’s thick, woolen coat only hampered his movements as he sidestepped the man but swung around quickly to prevent him from entering the tavern again.

A crowd gathered just inside the public house as the patrons pushed close for a view of the skirmish.

Bloody hell. Everyone at Castle Keyvnor and Tetbery Estate would likely hear of the tavern brawl before the day ended.

Silas needed to put an end to things before they went any further and someone was gravely injured. It would not do to arrive at the castle with a shiner or, worse yet, be made to seek out a physician due to broken ribs or a fractured arm.

The next round came with the agility of a man half his size and a decade younger as a fist collided with Silas’s shoulder; however, he was able to block the man’s right hook aimed at Silas’s chin.

This only angered the seaman further, his mouth thinning into a grim line as his brain worked through his next move.

Silas could fairly see the wheel turning as he assessed his opponent’s weak areas. Unfortunately, he did not know that Silas had saved every spare penny to pay for sparring lessons in his youth: bare-knuckle boxing, fencing, and wrestling. If Silas had wanted to cause a bigger commotion by taking the man down, he would have done so before fists flew in his direction.

The man’s move was clear, the telegraph so evident on his face it was a wonder he’d survived any past brawls.

He made to lunge at Silas again, spreading his arms wide and preparing to grab him about the chest, but the man halted before he pushed off and crumpled to the ground at Silas’s feet. A boulder the size of an ale pitcher hit Silas’s ankle and rolled into the tavern behind him.

What in the blazes?

Someone had stepped in and put an end to the scuffle.

Silas should have welcomed the assistance; however, it was unwarranted and unnecessary. As if he needed someone to step in and rescue him.

He stepped out of the tavern’s doorway and turned to the interloper, a rebuff on the tip of his tongue.

What he saw had Silas staggering back a step, his eyes widening in shock, surprise, and confusion as his pulse slowed to normal.

His mouth opened and closed several times as he searched his mind for the right thing to say. Hell, at this point, he’d be satisfied with gibberish nonsense.

Before him stood Lady Mallory Hughes, her wayward curls hanging haphazardly about her shoulders, her cloak’s buttons undone, her cheeks reddened from either the brisk December air or the excitement, and dear heavens above, Silas could not look away from her.

With lips pursed and arms still raised above her head from throwing the rock that had connected with the seaman’s head, Lady Mallory was anything but the poised, demure London debutante he’d met an hour before.

Her grey eyes fairly sizzled with unbridled heat as they took him in, scrutinizing his arms, legs, chest, and face—for injuries?

Certainly not.

Confident that he was whole and unharmed, Lady Mallory lowered her arms to her sides and took a deep, ragged breath, her chest straining against her bodice.

She was strong, self-assured, and robust. There was no spark of madness in her eyes as he noticed them darkening in the afternoon sunshine.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I could ask the same of you, my lord,” she retorted without hesitation, her stare narrowing on him as if challenging him to lie.

Not that Silas had any reason to lie.

“You should be at Tetbery Estate, not gallivanting about the Cornwall countryside.” He stepped forward, hoping to steer her away from the man at his feet who was beginning to stir and the crowd gazing on from the tavern. “You could have been seriously harmed.”

Pulling from his grasp, she huffed and hurried ahead of him before rounding and pinning him with a hardened stare. “It is you, Lord Lichfield, who was in jeopardy. And feel free to offer your thanks for my rescuing of you.”

“You, rescue me?” No one rescued him. It was Silas who took care of everyone around him. And it appeared that would extend to his betrothed, as well. He laughed, “Don’t be addlebrained, Lady Mallory. It is you who will be harmed if your escapades become known.”

Her eyes flared with irritation, and she crossed her arms over her still heaving bosom. “If my escapades are made known to whom?”

“Anyone,” he retorted. “Your reputation would be tarnished.”

“And you would be free to find fault with our betrothal?”

Find fault with their betrothal?

Silas’s mind whirled in an attempt to keep up with her words. “I have no intention of crying off. I committed, papers have been signed, and the banns read in both my parish and published in the London papers.”

“It is only your name on a piece of parchment that has bound you to me?”

“Are you mad, woman?” Silas knew the error of his words the moment they crossed his lips.

Lady Mallory’s nostrils flared with fury, and her lips pulled back, baring her clenched teeth.

When she took a step toward him, Silas backed up, out of shock or self-preservation, he was uncertain.

When her eyes narrowed on him, one hand landing on her hip as the other rose, she said, her words clipped, “You—think—me—mad?” She poked her finger into his chest with each venomous syllable.

In his entire life—as challenging and unpredictable as it had been thus far—Silas realized he’d never known true fear until he looked into the slate-grey eyes of his betrothed.

She was both terrifying and utterly captivating.

It was as if he were being led to his very own reckoning,

And he waited with bated breath to discover his fate.