Bond Street. The fashionable heart of London. Hawk stood at the edge of the bustling district and stepped forward into its midst.

Early spring sunlight glistened off of store windows. Street sweepers cleared the way for bright-cheeked ladies in sumptuous gowns. Metal wheels and the smart clop of hooves met on wet cobblestone. Fancy carriages, elegant clothes, French perfumes…

If he allowed himself to dream, Hawk could almost let himself believe he was still a part of this world.

Now, only his title belonged.

He straightened his worn gloves and shoved them out of sight behind his back. He walked with his head held high, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As if he were here to actually shop, rather than slowly pay off a long overdue account created by his father.

Not that Hawk was completely innocent of all such expenditures. One must clothe oneself, although a new jacket or a fresh pair of trousers every few years wasn’t the sort of purchase that would impress anyone strolling on Bond Street.

He kept his eyes forward, trained on no one in particular. He needed to let the tailor know the account was late but not forgotten. Hawk would pay as much as he could as soon as he could—sooner, if he could talk a few more investors into hurrying the port’s development along.

He exchanged smiles and polite words with everyone who tossed him a greeting. Most were too intent on their own shopping expeditions to notice Lord Hawkridge’s hands were as empty as his pockets.

That suited him perfectly. Hawk tortured himself over his financial difficulties enough quite on his own, thank you very much. He dreaded becoming town gossip. Another empty title among the relentlessly mocked ton caricatures.

At least it had not yet come to that.

Just as he reached the door to the tailor, it swung open from the inside and a familiar, well-dressed gentleman strolled out.

Hawk straightened involuntarily, although the last person on this earth he was likely to bamboozle was Mr. Grenville. He would know at a glance that Hawk wasn’t on Bond Street for an idle bout of shopping.

Yet he didn’t hide his face. Normally, London’s most enigmatic secret-keeper would be the last person Hawk wish to run into, but today it just so happened that he possessed a few secrets Hawk would do anything to unlock.

Mr. Grenville was Dahlia’s brother. Dahlia was Hawk’s sister-in-law… and the bosom friend and business partner of Hawk’s former paramour Miss Faith Digby.

Grenville would know everything there was to know.

If Hawk wished to learn more about Faith, he could not ask for a richer source. Grenville’s fame came not just from the wealth of his knowledge but his legendary discretion. Far more important men than Hawk paid handsomely to keep their secrets well out of the public eye.

Not that Mr. Grenville was anything so common as a blackmailer. Men of power sought him out, confided their worst indiscretions, so that he could make all potential problems disappear. Hawk had no idea how Grenville had stumbled into such a profession, if indeed it could be considered as such, but he was a nonpareil.

If anyone in all of England could tell Hawk how Faith was doing, what she was doing, how much happier she was without the penniless Lord Hawkridge in her life, Mr. Grenville would be that man. There is not a single secret all of London that Mr. Grenville was not privy to. The trick would be getting him to reveal even a tiny morsel.

“Grenville,” Hawk exclaimed with a bright smile he instantly regretted.

His exclamation was too exclaim-y, his ingratiating smile a bit too desperate. Grenville would guess in an instant why Hawk was so delighted to see him.

“Hawkridge,” Mr. Grenville said smoothly, his quick, intelligent gaze displaying neither suspiciousness nor curiosity. He did not inquire whether Hawk was in the fashionable quarter to outfit himself in the latest mode, or to pay a bill.

Why would he? They both knew what Hawk was about. And now the conversational ball was back in his hands.

“I dined with your sister yesterday,” Hawk said, as casually as he could manage.

Mr. Grenville was no doubt far more acquainted with the details of the encounter than Hawk. Gossip had it, the very walls confided to Grenville.

A faint smile curved his lips. “I trust Dahlia was well.”

“She appears to be thriving at her boarding school,” Hawk replied, thrilled at how quickly the conversation had given him the perfect foothold. “Miss Faith Digby was also there. They seem to be getting on well with their school.”

“Mmm,” Mr. Grenville murmured, his tone noncommittal.

The moment stretched on awkwardly.

Did Grenville know about Hawk’s past involvement with Faith? Did he suspect Hawk had stolen something far more valuable than a kiss? But if he knew about Faith and Hawkridge, why would Grenville never have mentioned it?

“Is she well?” Hawk blurted, not bothering to specify to which lady he referred.

Mr. Grenville lifted dark eyebrows. “You said you saw her. Did she appear unwell?”

The skin at the back of Hawk’s neck prickled. Perhaps he did know. Grenville knew everything, after all.

Hawk relinquished all pretense of artifice. “I had not seen her in far too long. I shan’t beg for details. Just tell me she’s been well.”

Mr. Grenville tilted his head and considered him in silence.

“Please. Faith is a mystery. Her name has never graced the scandal sheets, nor has it been called with any of the banns.” Hawk set his jaw in frustration. “I know nothing. It is torture. Surely there must be something you can tell me.”

A sympathetic smile curved the corners of Grenville’s lips. “I can tell you are very much interested in personal details. You mention scandal, wedding banns, whether she has found happiness. I am sorry that finding yourself so distant from her life tortures you. Yet it is not my place to amend that gap, but yours. I cannot help.”

“You could,” Hawk muttered under his breath. Very well. He did not deserve Faith then or now, which meant he likewise did not deserve to be privy to her life. No matter how he wished otherwise.

“Are you happy?” Mr. Grenville asked, surprising Hawk with the question.

Happy? The weight of his many responsibilities had weighed on Hawk’s shoulders for over one third of his life.

No, he was not happy. When he was younger, he had often wished he could be a headmaster or street sweeper or pie maker. Anything at all where his life and his fortune was under his control.

But he could not and he was not. He was a marquess with a title he could not be rid of by any means other than death. The same for his debts, and the lands entitled to him by law, unable to be sold or bartered or used as leverage to gain investments that might actually lift them out of the pit his father had dug for their family.

“It isn’t my duty to be happy,” Hawk said wryly, rather than give a direct answer.

“The curse of the aristocracy.” Mr. Grenville inclined his head in commiseration. “And yet without such rules, I would have no clients.”

True. Scandal was his specialty. Whether plots were being devised above board or below, Mr. Grenville was always in the thick of it. Protecting those who could afford his protection. Unmasking those who deserved to be unmasked.

“Am I keeping you from a job right now?” Hawk asked.

“This is the job.” Mr. Grenville swept his hand in the direction of the endless store windows. “You don’t happen to know the identity of the penny caricaturist poking such dreadful fun at the upper classes, do you?”

“If I could draw, it would probably be me,” Hawk said with a sardonic grin.

His mother would not appreciate the jest. Nor would the many peers whose faces had graced the anonymous sketches sweeping London by storm.

Caricatures had long been a part of town entertainment. Mocking the Prince Regent, pointing out genteel hypocrisy, providing commentary on the recent war with Napoleon Bonaparte. But of course Hawk knew to which caricatures Mr. Grenville referred.

A new artist had risen up out of nowhere, an illegible signature scrawled amongst the inked lines.

This artist provided more than idle commentary. He outed peccadilloes, mocked his betters, submitted illustrated scandals to gleeful gossip columns. The Cloven Hoof still boasted copies of the Lord of Pleasure sequence, which had recently upended the life of one of their friends.

Indeed, Hawk’s mother’s greatest fear was her face appearing in one of Betelgeuse’s caricatures. Or Hawk’s.

Of course a man like Mr. Grenville would want the name of the villain behind so much havoc. The only surprise to Hawk was that the secret-keeper did not already have it.

“I’m afraid I don’t get out enough to be privy to any scandals,” Hawk admitted. “The only reason my dancing slippers are in serviceable condition is because I haven’t used them in years.”

“Mmm, I see.” Mr. Grenville raised his brows. “You are lovesick, and you are bored. A precarious combination.”

“What?” Hawk stammered. “No, I—”

“There may be a solution,” Mr. Grenville continued, his eyes alight with mischief. “As it happens, I occasionally serve as substitute dancing-master at my sister’s boarding school when the usual dancing-master cannot be present. I am expected tonight, in fact.”

Hawk frowned. “What have your dancing lessons to do with me?”

“I cannot imagine. All I know is that it would be dreadful if I were to not keep the appointment. There would be no one to take my place. And I feel the ague coming on.” Mr. Grenville gave a laughably delicate cough into a pristine riding glove. “But I suppose beggars cannot be choosers when it comes to volunteer dance instructors. If some other gentleman were to be present at around six o’clock this evening, Dahlia—and, perhaps, her business partner—might find such a circumstance serendipitous. You did say your dancing slippers were in serviceable condition, did you not?”

Hawk’s breath caught. A second chance with Faith in as many days.

Which could only mean Grenville did not know about their sordid past. Right? Of course he would not. Why would Faith confess ruination to anyone, when she could simply find someone better than Hawk and carry on without him?

Faith’s pool of potential suitors was not limited to peers of the realm. Perhaps the reason Mr. Grenville had not wished to speak of her was because she’d done exactly that. Found a beau that was not Hawk. Someone who would not disappoint her.

Someone who could marry her.

Hawk’s shoulders tightened. Even if the best he could hope for was another stolen hour in her company, he could think of no better way he’d rather spend an evening.

He felt as though he had been bestowed a benediction. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Mr. Grenville gave another false, mincing cough. “I find myself so out of sorts that I fear I have already forgotten our entire conversation. I must bid you good day.”

Hawk nodded quickly, his heart soaring. His friend had given him a far better opening than he deserved, but it was still up to Hawk not to bollocks the opportunity.

He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for his battered timepiece. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

Barely enough time to go home and draw a bath, dress in the handsomest clothes he could find, and casually happen to be in the neighborhood of the St. Giles School for Girls at a quarter to six.

And just happen to have his dancing slippers in his carriage.