There was nowhere Simon wished to be less than a shadowy table in the back of the Cloven Hoof.

He was far from convinced there was any mystery to be solved. Like as not, Lady Pettibone had sent him on a wild goose chase that was wasting Simon’s time and the Crown’s money. But she hadn’t earned the hushed moniker “the old dragon” because she was a pushover. The Justice of the Peace had made it perfectly clear: the case wasn’t over until Simon definitively proved Maxwell Gideon’s guilt or innocence.

“In what, exactly?” Simon had asked.

The Justice of the Peace had simply sent him on his way.

So there he was in the back of a gentlemen’s club that was simultaneously both more and less exclusive than Brooks’s and Boodle’s. Here, the yardstick of a man’s worth was not his money or his title, but rather whether the club owner felt you worthy enough to be entrusted with the secret knock.

The alternative method of entry being learning the knock from someone already accepted into the club.

None of that was illegal. There wasn’t even a ledger listing member names. Either you knew the knock, or you didn’t. And if you knew the knock when you shouldn’t… well, Gideon had placed hired muscle at the door for a reason.

That might be illegal. Depending on how Vigo the doorman chose to resolve conflicts.

Thus far, however, Gideon seemed to keep a remarkably amicable club. Gamblers were allowed to wager as much and as often as they wished. Drinkers were allowed to run as obscenely long a tab as they pleased. Any fights resulted in immediate eviction of all parties involved, with the instigator banned for life. Even the betting book was no more outrageous than the one the fashionable set kept at White’s.

The most obvious question wasn’t whether Gideon was making money illegally, but whether the man was making any at all. Which, Simon had to admit, was in itself suspicious.

Perhaps Lady Pettibone was right.

He crossed his arms and leaned back into the shadows to watch the night unfold.

While his eyes focused on the dark, candlelit scene before him, however, part of his mind was not present in the Cloven Hoof at all, but rather replaying the most sensuous moments of his recent interactions with Miss Grenville.

Her fingers touching the muscles of his arm, sliding up the front of his chest. His hands cupping her face, sinking into her hair. The victory of finally kissing her. The rush of bliss when she kissed him back. The moment she’d bade him call her Dahlia.

Dahlia. A delicate flower. An undeniably strong woman. Yet the name fit perfectly. Both were vivid, multifaceted, extraordinary.

And if Simon had not been sent on tonight’s mission, he might have been kissing her lips right now.

As viscerally as missing their weekly dance lesson disappointed, his responsibilities as an inspector would always take top priority. One man missing a dance or a supper or a few hours of sleep was a small price to pay for keeping London as safe and lawful as possible. If his childhood had taught him anything, it was that criminals must be apprehended and punished for their crimes at all costs. It was the only chance to keep order in a chaotic world.

His eyes flicked to the front of the club as the doorman cracked open the door to allow in another patron. Simon let out a sigh at the sight of dark-haired, penniless Lord Hawkridge.

Simon’s titled half-brother. Naturally. The night had only wanted this.

He remained in the shadows as the marquess entered, declined a drink from the barmaid, and joined a clump of dandies who were cheering on a trio of pink-cheeked gentlemen casting entire fortunes onto a wine-stained hazard table.

Why was Lord Hawkridge watching wastrels risk the rest of their lives on a toss of the dice? Did he wish he had the blunt to join, or a purse to lose? Or did his inscrutable expression hide contempt for his fellow spendthrifts, and their eagerness to flirt with a misfortune that mirrored his own?

Simon could not guess at the answers. He had never even spoken to his brother. Their social spheres were too distant, and the marquess didn’t even know a half-brother existed.

He did, however, have years of observation to draw from. His jealousy of his brother’s better life had made it impossible to look away as his younger brother received top marks first at Eton, then Oxford. Simon had consoled himself with the knowledge that Zachary’s professors were praising his title, not his performance. The supposed only child of a marquess would not have spent grueling years hunched over ancient, water-damaged books trying to teach himself mathematics and grammar without aid of a tutor.

Simon’s discovery that he had a natural ability for memorization and logic had changed the course of his life.

Zachary’s life, on the other hand, had only ever had a single course. He was born heir to a marquessate. The end.

There were no decisions to be made, no exams to study, no Justice of the Peace with the power of promoting or sacking his officers at will. Zachary was born to be Lord Hawkridge someday, and now that he’d inherited the title, he would remain marquess for the rest of his life. What care had he for numbers or hard work?

Except perhaps that long-held narrative wasn’t true after all. If the marquessate was already destitute when he became the new lord, then Hawkridge clearly wasn’t half bad at figures. He was impoverished, but not beggared. He would have to wed an heiress, rather than find a love match, but had managed to postpone that unhappy day thus far. In fact, an impartial observer might conclude that having a fair head for figures was something both brothers had in common.

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitched. Once upon a time, he would have been horrified to think he shared any talent with his younger half-sibling. As an adult, however, Simon was oddly almost proud of him. He couldn’t help but wonder what Hawkridge might think of Simon if he suddenly learned he had a brother.

Well, no sense wondering, was there? Simon was here. Hawkridge was here.

A dark, possibly illegal gambling den was perhaps not the most ideal locale to spring a surprise sibling on a chap, but since a marquess and a Bow Street employee were unlikely to run into each other in the House of Lords or at a private ball, the Cloven Hoof was likely the best opportunity they would ever get.

Simon had always been a fan of taking action. Sure, he had done his fair share of sulking over life’s relentless unfairness as a lad, but he’d simultaneously made a new plan and worked his arse off until he achieved it. That mixture of resolve, determination, and fearlessness served him well in his career, speeding him up the ranks with each impossible caper solved, every dangerous criminal apprehended.

After so many years of charging into frays and confronting armed malefactors, approaching a weaponless stranger in a public room ought to be child’s play.

And yet, “Good day! Funny story: I’m your half-brother,” would be the hardest words to get off his tongue.

No matter how angry Simon had been at his father for siring a son he was too ashamed to recognize, one of his favorite childhood fantasies had been somehow meeting Zachary, and becoming secret best friends. Their father would not approve, but since Simon was already nobody and Zachary was already the heir, what punishment could the marquess truly bring?

In Simon’s daydreams, the bond of brotherhood easily trumped the tyranny of fatherhood. He and his brother would ride horses together, study Latin together, hunt foxes together, play bowls and nine pins together, even fall in love at the same time, and promise their children would spend plenty of time together as cousins. He had been convinced it could happen…if only Hawkridge knew of his existence.

Not only had the opportunity for those boyhood fantasies long passed, so had both of Simon’s parents. Even if he did introduce himself to his brother, what proof did he have that his claims were true?

The most likely outcome was not that the two men would ride stallions off into the sunset on some brotherly adventure, but rather that Hawkridge would laugh in Simon’s face, turn his back, and immediately put him out of his mind.

Worse than rejected. Dismissed as insignificant.

As Simon watched, Lord Hawkridge stepped away from the hazard game to glance at the corner table he often shared with the club owner, Maxwell Gideon.

The table was still empty. It had been empty all evening. Either Gideon was not in attendance tonight, or he was holed up in his private office at the back of the club. There was only one way to know for certain.

Apparently following the same train of logic, Hawkridge craned his neck toward the passageway leading to the back office. The hallway was empty. Even the private tables were empty, save for a lone gentleman in a dark corner, blurring with the shadows. Hawkridge would have no inkling that the stranger was an inspector, or his half-brother. As far as the marquess was concerned, Simon was nobody at all.

Unless Simon changed his mind.

With visible annoyance, Hawkridge cast another frustrated glance at the vacant side table, then stalked through the smoky gaming room toward the back of the club.

This was it. If Simon wished, he could remain part of the woodwork, and let his brother pass by without a word, or even meeting his eyes.

Simon rose to his feet.

“Hawkridge.” The word came out gruff. Scratchier than he would have wished. But at least it was spoken.

The marquess’s answering glare would have frosted a lesser man. “I’m late.”

“You’re not late,” Simon corrected, irritated at his brother’s casual rudeness to a total stranger. “Gideon’s late. You’ve been waiting. You can wait here.” He gestured at an empty seat at his table.

Hawkridge ignored the invitation. “I don’t know you.”

Simon nodded. Fair enough. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Simon Spaulding, and I—”

“I know who you are,” Hawkridge snapped. “I don’t know you and I don’t wish to.”

Simon frowned. His cover was clearly not as good as he’d thought. “You know that I’m a Bow—”

“I know you’re my father’s by-blow. Bully for you. I’m busy.” Hawkridge let out an exaggerated sigh. “Now will you step out of my way?”

“You…know?” Simon stammered in disbelief, his mind spinning. “How do you know?”

Hawkridge’s laugh was as humorless as breaking glass. “How wouldn’t I know? Every time he missed my birthday, my mother’s birthday, my graduations, it was because he was off debasing himself with a mistress he cared more about than his own family. Simon taught himself geometry without aid of a tutor. Simon doesn’t talk back to when he’s scolded. Simon is more of a naturally born gentleman than you are.”

“He…what?” Simon’s voice was almost too faint for even himself to hear.

“You think you’re better than me?” Hawkridge continued, his angry words coming faster. “I’m not surprised. You can’t help it. You’ve always had it easier.”

“I…what?” Simon spluttered. Was the marquess a madman? “You are a lord. I’m just—”

“Free,” Hawkridge interjected vehemently. “You’ve no entailed properties tied about your neck. You can do as you please, be what you please, make friends with people of your own choosing. You can even fall in love with whomever you want. You’ve probably already done so. Is there a Mrs. Spaulding?”

“Er…” Simon’s cheeks heated despite himself. He had always believed in waiting for the right woman or not marrying at all. “She’s not—”

“Well, she should be, whoever she is. Unless you’re not as bright as I was led to believe.” Hawkridge curled his lip as if disgusted by Simon’s bachelorhood. “Honestly, if I had half the advantages you possess—”

“You had our father,” Simon burst out, unable to take the selfish tirade anymore. “He acknowledged you. He chose you. You have his name, his home, his title.”

“Bully for me, then. I’ve a title. Huzzah.” Hawkridge shrugged his perfectly tailored shoulders. “I suppose that’s my cross to bear. Now if you don’t mind, I informed you that I am very busy—”

“Godspeed, by all means. I’ve never been happier to send a self-important prig on his way.” Simon stepped out of the passageway with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Believe me, I shan’t be bothering you again.”

“Then at least that’s one good thing to happen today.” Hawkridge stalked past him toward the rear office.

Blood boiling, Simon strode out of the Cloven Hoof without a backward glance at his brother. He would never make the mistake of reaching out to family ever again. Simon had never had a brother before. He didn’t need one now. Especially not a selfish ingrate like that.

He leapt onto his horse and charged aimlessly through the streets of London.

At least, he meant to charge aimlessly. Somehow, his horse had found its way through town to the St. Giles School for Girls.

As he tied his horse to a post, Simon forced his nerves to settle. There was nothing he wanted more than to have a calm, private moment with Dahlia, and neither she nor her students deserved to bear the brunt of his current ill humor. He wasn’t at the Cloven Hoof anymore.

Within these walls, he could be happy.

He rolled back his shoulders and gave the knocker a loud rap.

When Dahlia answered the door, he nearly sagged in relief. “You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” She blinked at him in confusion. “It’s nearly midnight.”

Midnight. Of course it was. And he’d banged on the front door. He stiffened in embarrassment.

“My apologies. Time…got away from me. I—Perhaps I’ll call again tomorrow.”

“Now is a good time.” She pulled the door open wider. “I’m not in my nightrail yet and the girls are asleep. Come in. How do you feel about lukewarm tea?”

“My favorite kind,” he said gruffly, and stepped inside.

She led him to the dining table, where a teapot, a novel, and a waning candle clumped in one corner.

He sat on the other side. “You were relaxing. I’ve interrupted.”

“You’re my favorite interruption.” She placed a worn teacup and saucer onto the table and lifted the pot. “This is the third time we’ve used these leaves, so don’t be alarmed if there’s little taste or color left.”

Her words were matter-of-fact. Recycling tea leaves was commonplace for those who couldn’t afford fresh. And yet, the fact that she’d felt obligated to explain herself made him wonder once again what sort of life she had lived before becoming headmistress of this school.

Whatever led her down this path, he was glad of it. She was changing the destines of dozens of young ladies. Many of whom would have ended up in brothels or worse situations, were it not for this opportunity.

Simon couldn’t help but wonder how different his mother’s life might have been if there would have been a school like this available to her. Would she still have become a courtesan? An unhappy mistress to a married lord? Or might she have become a governess, a cook, a housekeeper, some less vulnerable position where she might have met someone who loved her enough to marry her?

Rather than drink his tea, he found himself spilling the entire story. How his father had treated his mother. How Simon had been born insignificant and had worked his entire life to be the opposite. How his fashionable, powerful, titled half-brother somehow felt he was the party more deserving of pity.

He curled his fists in frustration. “The tables would be turned if my father had made a different decision. If he’d done the ethical thing and married my mother, I would be marquess.”

Dahlia curved her slender fingers over his fists.

“No, you wouldn’t,” she said softly. “He could never marry your mother. If he had done the ethical thing, he would have left her alone…and you would never have been born.”

Simon stared at her.

She was right. If Father had married Mummy was a child’s fantasy. Lords didn’t wed courtesans. They couldn’t. One of the biggest scandals of the past century was when the Prince of Wales had illegally wed his mistress, and even he had been forced to give her up.

Simon’s father was not a gothic villain. Nor was his mother an innocent victim. If anything, their relationship had been more honest than either of them had a right to expect.

“He should not have carried on two lives,” he said stubbornly. “It’s black and white.”

Dahlia’s eyes flashed. “Nothing is black and white. The world is full of gray. All we can do is the best that we can, which often means compromising something we’d rather not. Many people have two lives.”

“I do not,” Simon pointed out. “Hiding one’s true self is a form of cowardice.”

“Spoken like someone who has never had to,” Dahlia said sharply. “For many, it means survival. You cannot judge the entire world based on your interactions with one man.”

“Not just him,” Simon muttered. “My half-brother is a complete prig like all his titled peers, and we’ll continue to be strangers the rest of our lives.”

Dahlia frowned. “Does he have to be?”

He shrugged. “He wants to be.”

“But does he have to be?” she repeated. “Might he not be pushing you away for the same reason you took so long to approach him?”

“Afraid his bastard half-brother would reject him?” Simon asked in disbelief.

“But you did,” she pointed out. “He didn’t have time for you today, and you excised him from the rest of your life.”

“He was rude.” Simon’s jaw set. “He doesn’t wish to be brotherly with me.”

“He doesn’t wish it right now,” she agreed. “But things change. You’ve already missed out on each other’s company for half your lives. Are you going to waste the next few decades, too?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do you do this to all your students?”

She blinked back at him innocently. “Do what?”

“Force reason and empathy upon them until they become better people,” he muttered with exaggerated sullenness.

“I hope so. I think that’s what a headmistress is.” She grinned. “You’re an inspector. What did you detect about your brother, apart from his heinous manners?”

Simon thought back. His brother had come into the club for a purpose. He’d been expecting to speak with the owner, and for some reason that hadn’t happened. He had seemed on his way to confront Gideon when Simon had interrupted.

“Hawkridge was in a foul temper before we’d exchanged a single word,” he admitted. “He said the first thing that had gone right for him today was me leaving.”

“Then even if his words were true, his primary frustration was targeted at whatever was going on before you clashed.” She touched the side of his face. “I think you should try again.”

“I’ll consider it,” Simon allowed, after a brief pause. “But not today.”

“Not today,” she agreed, and rose to her feet. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?”

Simon leapt out of his chair in surprise. “Am I leaving?”

“I hope not.” She wrapped her fingers about the lapels of his greatcoat. “I just wanted an excuse for you to kiss me.”

“How’s this for an excuse,” he said as he lowered his mouth to hers. “I love kissing you.”

She wrapped her arms about his neck. “Then don’t stop.”

Stopping was the last thing he wanted. Now or ever.

Her kisses were not the shy, tentative pecks of a maiden unsure about her suitor. Dahlia’s kisses spilled forth with the same passionate abandon she met life with. Her mouth was sweet and sinful. Her tongue more than willing. She made no attempt to hide the unevenness in her breath or the heat in her eyes, but rather gave herself over to it completely.

How could he possibly resist?

No matter how hard Simon tried to push her from his mind, to maintain some semblance of decorum and distance between them, it was no use. Every breath he took carried the scent of her hair, every beat of his heart recalled the feel of her soft bosom pressed tight to his chest.

Kissing her wasn’t something he chose to do. It was as natural and as compulsive as breathing. Lifting his lips from hers for even a second caused a sense of loss and longing so profound that he was helpless to do anything but kiss her again. Longer. Deeper. To imprint himself on her soul the way she had branded herself on his.

Passion such as theirs was as dangerous as it was addictive. If he were not careful, he would find himself tumbling over the precipice. And if she were not careful… He might never let her go.

Breathless, he forced himself to break the spell of their kiss.

“It’s late,” he said roughly. “I should let you get some sleep.”

“Sleep is the furthest thing from my mind,” she replied, her dark eyes luminous as they gazed up at him.

Sleep was also the last thing on Simon’s mind. But, however much he loved her kisses and was eager to discover where they might lead, he refused to commit the same sins as his father. He respected Dahlia too much to make love to her without the protection of marriage. Nor would he engage in any behavior that could accidentally sire a child.

As much as it pained him to leave her, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and turned for the door. To his surprise, he had begun to wonder whether he ought to reconsider his thoughts on courtship. The idea was as much intriguing as terrifying. There was no reason to rush things. Simon straightened his shoulders as he stepped out into the night.

He would be the first man in his family to choose the right woman and treat her as a gentleman should. Dahlia was worth it.