“How is your arm feeling, sir? Do your bandages need changing?”

It hurt like hell, and if one more person poured spirits on his flesh, his arm would melt into a puddle on the wooden floor of the swaying, creaking, barge.

William gritted his teeth and forced a smile at the deferential young aide. “It’s fine, thank you.”

“That is good to hear. Captain says we’ll be docking in about a half hour or so. Crossing the Channel is the easy part. Navigating the Thames and getting to Wapping always takes a lot longer than anyone thinks. So crowded.”

He nodded. “That’s the truth.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then, sir. Just say if you need anything.”

Alone again, William peered out the round window of his tiny cabin. Thankfully it had been a smooth crossing from Calais; seasickness would have been one indignity too far. Especially as his gut was already churning at the thought of his impending role, and seeing the woman he may have misjudged completely. But he was back in England, at least. Even though he wouldn’t be living at Hastings House, White had apparently secured him decent accommodation at a hotel for prosperous merchants in Piccadilly, known for clean lodgings and hearty meals. So that was something.

Or perhaps he just wanted to get off this damned barge. The aide was correct about the speed at which they inched up the Thames. Even before nine o’clock in the morning, the waterway was frantically busy. On the docks groups of sailors laughed and joked as they headed into the first tavern they could find, while merchantmen barked orders and oversaw the unloading of precious cargo.

William made his way to the front of the barge, exchanging greetings with the sailors as they expertly uncoiled ropes and prepared for docking. When the gangplank was lowered, he paused to pull his borrowed cap lower and tattered greatcoat closer around him, to protect his wound sites. It was indeed fortunate he’d been hit in the left shoulder, so his usual dexterity with his right arm wasn’t affected. Then he took a few deep breaths of the rather rancid air. Who would have thought the sights, sounds, and smells of London awake and ready for action would be so damned welcome?

Hoisting his leather satchel over his good shoulder, he weaved his way through barrels of wine and large crates of food and clothing and swarms of men going about their daily tasks, until he reached the main thoroughfare. He needed to get to Whitehall. Immediately.

Putting two fingers in his mouth, he made to whistle for a hackney until a loud cough made him turn.

“Excuse me, Mr. Underwood, sir?”

William shook his head and almost pushed past the neatly dressed footman, then he froze.

“Who wants to know?” he asked quietly.

The footman gestured toward a lavish carriage where a rich merchant with thick whiskers, a quizzing glass, and thinning ginger hair leaned out the window and waggled his fingers.

His eyes narrowing, William stalked over to the carriage and climbed in. “Firstly, you look bloody ridiculous. Secondly, the only thing which has kept me going for the past six weeks has been the thought of beating you senseless. That quickly progressed to breaking all your toes. But when I started getting shot with real bullets on the beach at Calais, I decided nothing less than castration would do, you unspeakable bastard.”

White gave him an injured look as the carriage pulled away from the docks. “I thought I scrubbed up rather well as a wealthy merchant. But I do apologize for the inconvenience you suffered in France. That was unfortunate. Most unfortunate.”

“Inconvenience? I have two bullet holes in my shoulder! A certain Scottish tailor who dabbles in delicate matters informed me if I didn’t change the bandage regularly and douse it in the Highland’s finest, my arm would have to be CUT OFF.”

“Well, yes, Dougal is correct. Cleanliness is next to godliness...ooof!”

Leaning back against the soft velvet carriage squabs, William examined the stinging knuckles of his right hand. Even Gentleman Jackson might have been impressed with the speed and stealth of that particular blow. “I’ve also heard they, whoever they are, said something about violence not making anything better. But they are quite wrong. I feel remarkably cheerier now.”

“Devil take it, Standish,” White snapped, scowling as he dabbed at the blood oozing from his nose with a crumpled linen handkerchief. “I’ll allow you that just this once, but if you ever even think about it again, I’ll saw your arm off myself. Now, perhaps we could get down to business?”

“By all means.”

“Excellent. In regards to your lodgings, they are prepared and ready for you to move in. Close enough to Sackville Street where the Claremonts are without being too obvious.”

“How is Lady Samantha?” William asked, unable to stop himself.

“In good health, as far as I know. It seems she took your, ah, accident rather badly.”

He smiled grimly. “Oh yes?”

“Indeed. She has remained mostly in seclusion, refusing to see all visitors apart from the Westleighs, although she has ventured out on several occasions to visit Southby. Not necessarily within the usual calling hours.”

“I introduced them, they are acquainted,” William snapped, his fists clenching as the Frenchman’s taunts sprung to mind. She is a fast learner who grows more skilled at her work by the day…Lady Samantha spreads her thighs for everyone.

“Of course. Next on my list of instructions, your new role. You’ll have a man by the name of Barclay to help you dress each day, he’ll also attend to your wig and makeup.”

“Makeup?”

“Oh yes,” White replied, his gaze turning sly. “Nasty stuff, unfortunately, just like what Kean and Siddons must wear on stage. Once they’ve added a few layers of paint, given you some wrinkles, shadowed your eyes and fastened a wig over your hair, you’ll be unrecognizable.”

William raised an eyebrow. “One would hope so. I can’t imagine all this going very well if the first person to bump into me says ‘Standish! Thought you were languishing in France. Why’d you have all that goo on your face?’”

“Don’t even joke about it. You must not answer to Standish or William Hastings or my lord under any circumstances. Your name is Mr. David Underwood, you are sixty years old, a widower who lives on the goodwill of your wealthy family which ebbs and flows depending on how much you have irritated them in recent times. You greatly enjoy good food, better wine, expensive fabrics, and salacious scandals with other men’s wives. You loathe rules, and paying bills.”

“So I’m extraordinarily likable then.”

“Very much so. By marriage you were third cousin to Andrew Westleigh, so you were also acquainted with Richard Standish, and you attended both their weddings. People remember your unusual height, but you much prefer being emperor of Cornwall society rather than just another penniless London fop, which is why you are rarely seen amongst the ton.”

“Cornwall? Where I partake in a certain kind of night work to boost my fluctuating income?”

White snorted. “No. Underwood is an indoors man. Your boat and beach skills will not be required here.”

“Pity. Now for a serious question. Where is David Underwood right now? I’m not going to bump into myself at a ball or one of the clubs, am I?”

“No. He is currently in a secure facility recovering from an unfortunate mishap. The salacious scandals I spoke of earlier—on the most recent occasion the husband returned home early, and there was an incident with a pistol, a broom, and a flock of geese that, let’s just say, did not end well.”

William rubbed his jaw, just to keep it from dropping in disgust. “Good God. This is a new low, even for you. For the foreseeable future I’m to be a useless, spendthrift, dandified old rake whose claim to greatness is countless seedy affairs?”

“Precisely,” said White, his face so bland William longed to hit him again.

“Wonderful.”

“Glad to hear you’re looking forward to the assignment. Barclay will brief you on anything else that has happened since you’ve been away, and give you further background information on Underwood. Oh and by the by, your first public outing is at Drury Lane tonight. Quite appropriate, really, with you to be in costume and all.”

“Tonight?” he growled, just as the carriage pulled up in front of a tidy gray stone building with several large windows. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Come now, you know I don’t have a sense of humor.”

“Yes you do. It is just sick and very, very twisted.”

White smiled angelically. “Enjoy your time in town, Mr. Underwood.”

* * *

“Get up!”

Blinking sleepily, Samantha lifted her head from the soft pillow she hugged and stared at the door of her chamber. Then wished she hadn’t, for the determined look on Caroline’s face in the fading light of dusk would be enough to give anyone palpitations.

“Is...is something wrong, Caro?”

“You’re damned right there is something wrong, poppet. You not leaving this chamber, or more importantly, your bed. It has gone on long enough. You need air. Conversation. To have your gloves made damp by perspiration and wet kisses.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling well.”

“Sam, dearest…” Caroline’s voice gentled. “I know it is a terribly, terribly difficult time. But you cannot remain cooped up in this chamber. The latest rumor to circle London is that you went mad and have been locked away. If you were at least seen out, even just once…”

“Well—”

“Besides, I have news. Good news! Stephen just received a note from the Home Office to say Lord Standish’s condition has improved. He has opened his eyes and even took a little broth. Although he has a long way to go, they are now hopeful of an eventual full recovery.”

Samantha burst into tears. “That is…that is…”

“The best news. I know,” said her friend, wrapping her in a warm hug. “So now we must celebrate with an evening at the theater. Stephen, George and Louisa, Ardmore, and Southby will all be there. And Jane. We’ll be in Southby’s private box, so you don’t need to speak to anyone you don’t wish to. But you’ll be seen.”

“I’m surprised Alexander agreed. No, don’t give me that look, Caro, he invited me to call him that in private,” she finished tartly, almost giddy at the knowledge William was recovering.

“Well, pardon me, I’m sure. In fact, Southby has been as unsocial as you, but George alternated singing ‘Greensleeves’ and playing the trumpet outside his library window until he conceded defeat. Not even the duke of ice himself could stand such aural torture. Besides, tonight will be marvelous. It’s Edmund Kean at Drury Lane, and the way he acts…it doesn’t matter who he plays, you believe it wholeheartedly.”

“He’s really as good as that?”

“Oh, he’s better. The way he reads Shakespeare will send tingles down your spine. So I repeat, get up. Immediately. I’ll find you a gown, get your hair arranged, then we’ll go to dinner. After that all of us will depart for the Theater Royal together. Southby will lift an eyebrow, we’ll be whisked to his box which of course is second only to the king’s, and all will be well.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, a genuine smile curved Samantha’s mouth. “All right, then.”

After a delicious dinner of roasted pigeon, creamed potatoes, asparagus, and raspberry syllabub, Alexander’s carriage took them to the grand theater. Her eyes about to pop out of her head, Samantha drank in the jaw-droppingly lavish surroundings. Men in tailored jackets and intricately folded cravats, and beautiful women draped in jewels and furs, were everywhere. The noise of chatter was near-deafening, many couples strolled up the large staircase to their seats while others stood in small groups holding glasses of champagne.

“It’s so big!” she whispered under her breath to Caroline.

“The previous one was a bit bigger,” her friend replied. “The theater has been rebuilt three or four times I think, and only seats about three thousand people now.”

“Only three thousand!”

Caroline grinned. “They wanted to give it a more, ah, cozy feel. Although I daresay everyone down in the pits would have felt cozy enough. Imagine being trapped next to someone less than fastidious about bathing.”

“I don’t know how they stand it. They must love watching plays a great deal. Then again, we all need some diversion at times.”

“Enough gossiping, you two,” said Lord Trentham, herding them down a long, curved hallway. “We’re in the world’s greatest theater and about to see the finest of actors thanks to Southby’s selfless generosity.”

Alexander scowled. “It’s not like I had a choice. Everyone mocks the Hartley chit’s singing, but by God, you are no improvement. As for that trumpet playing...I’ve heard screaming toddlers in Hyde Park with more musicality.”

“I’m wounded. You just cut me straight to the heart. Besides, none of my efforts would’ve been necessary had you behaved like a normal man and responded to letters and visits.”

“Some of us have matters on our minds.”

“Some of us need to remember we are not responsible for everything that happens in the world,” said Lord Ardmore, giving Alexander a pointed look as they strolled to the Southby private box.

Alexander halted, his leashed tension practically visible. “Don’t even start, Scot.”

“Your grace,” said Samantha, putting her hand on his sleeve. “Isn’t the news wonderful? Caroline told me that William has improved.”

The duke gazed down at her, and his face softened. “The best possible. Robert and I were both delighted to be informed. My brother…he is at last resting comfortably.”

Guilt lashed at her for the way she’d spoken to the colonel when she’d last seen him. “Please pass on my regards. And my apologies. That day—”

Alexander patted her hand, then his expression eased back into its usual aloof coolness. “Is one that should remain in the past, where it belongs.”

“See, Mama?” said Stephen gruffly from behind Alexander and Lord and Lady Trentham, where he walked with Aunt Jane on one arm and Caroline on the other, “I told you it was true. William is far too ornery to succumb to something as trivial as French bullets. He’ll be well and on his way home in no time.”

“One can only hope,” said Alexander. He paused beside a doorway blocked by a heavy, ruby-red curtain, and pulled it to one side. “Here we are. Ladies, after you.”

Following Louisa, Aunt Jane, and Caroline into the sumptuously appointed box, Samantha sucked in a deep breath. Nothing could describe the sheer majesty of the theater, with its towering columns, beautifully sculpted plasterwork, and large stage. The pits were a sea of people, talking and laughing while to the left and right other patrons took their box seats in a genteel flurry of silks and velvets.

“Sit down, dearest, you’re catching flies,” said Louisa with a wink.

“But it’s so...amazing!”

Aunt Jane smiled. “The best is yet to come, I promise.”

She was right. When Edmund Kean stalked onto the stage and began to recite his lines, a hush descended on the enormous theater. The actor was indeed short of stature, but his commanding voice and presence made him seem seven feet tall.

Gripping the handrail in front of her, Samantha leaned forward to get closer to the action, letting his talent, and the lyrical words of Mr. Shakespeare, surround and wash over her.

“Ahem. Ah-hem.”

Startled, she glanced around and froze as two things became clear. Firstly, the play had finished. Secondly, a silver-haired, plump-cheeked stranger lounged in the doorway, idly tapping his thigh with a cane. He was perhaps in his fifties or sixties, very tall, but like her own father often did, wearing clothes for someone much thinner. The stranger also had a brandy flush rather similar to Papa’s. But this man was grinning at them as though he knew them all well.

Did they know him? There was something vaguely familiar about the man.

Her forehead creasing slightly, Samantha turned to the others to see what their reaction was. They must know him, surely. A stranger wouldn’t dare march into the Duke of Southby’s box, bold as brass, like he owned it. But Caroline looked blank. Lord Trentham, Stephen, and Alexander were frowning darkly. Lord Ardmore grinned. Oh dear. If Lord Ardmore was amused, the stranger must be very scandalous indeed. Then her gaze landed on Aunt Jane, who was pale, and clutching the seat in front of her.

“David?” her aunt gasped. “But...but...I thought you were dead!”

“Dead? Good God. As you can see, Janey darling,” the man drawled nasally, giving his cane a jaunty swing, before leaning down and giving her a long, hard, one-armed hug, “Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. Westleigh, dear boy, good evening to you and your delectable wife. Southby, and hmmm, Trentham and Ardmore. My greetings and felicitations for the new Season etcetera, etcetera. Now, I feel slighted. There are beautiful women in this box I do not know. Such a travesty must be rectified immediately.”

Aunt Jane swallowed hard, clearly still too overwhelmed, so Stephen stood instead.

“Ladies, this is Mr. David Underwood. A distant relative. Uncle David, this is Lady Trentham...”

“The chemist, yes? I have heard such talk about you. But they didn’t mention you possessed such glorious red hair. Charmed, my love,” Underwood replied bowing deeply when Louisa stood and curtsied, a look of bemusement on her face.

“And this is my cousin, Lady Samantha Buchanan,” Stephen continued.

“No! This scrumptious little morsel cannot be baby Sam! The last time I saw you, you were toddling around in your small cloths!”

Her cheeks on fire, Samantha got to her feet and curtsied. “It’s lovely to make your acquaintance, ah, again, Mr. Underwood.”

“Call me Uncle David, pet, I am actually family. The black sheep, obviously,” he murmured, winking as he rubbed his gloved thumb across her knuckles. “Married a third cousin of Andrew’s a long time ago. Broke my tender heart when she passed, never found another like her. In the bedchamber or out.”

Samantha choked on a cough and he frowned.

“I say, are you all right, darling? Somebody hurry up and get this gel a drink. Call yourselves gentlemen! Actually, let’s all have one,” Underwood announced, scooping up a bottle of champagne and splashing some into a glass. “A toast! To blood being thicker than water!”

Her lips wobbling as she suppressed laughter at David Underwood’s rascal antics, Samantha instead focused on the others in the box. Some were appalled, some amused, and the Westleighs just resigned.

She solemnly raised her glass. “To family. And those far away who we want returned to us as soon as possible.”

* * *

Gulping the contents of the champagne glass while desperately wishing it was the strongest brandy ever made, William concentrated on not wiping his brow and smearing his heavy makeup or scratching the rough padding itching his abdomen.

He’d passed the first test. Well, except for grinning like a bloody clown when he’d walked into Alexander’s box and seen every person he had missed while in France. But it was further affirmation that his disguise was robust, his longtime friends, foster family, and Samantha were all looking at him with varying degrees of horror. Something he’d not experienced as William Hastings. And not that he would ever admit it, but being the opposite of himself—effusive and crude and ridiculous—was not quite as awful as he’d thought. In fact, one almost might call it liberating.

“Mr. Underwood?”

He blinked and looked down at Samantha. She wore a fetching ivory gown with gold embroidery, and her curls had been temporarily tamed into a loose chignon, but in contrast, her face was drawn and there were shadows under her eyes. Not sleeping, certainly. But whether because she truly missed him or had been trotting about London meeting men and sharing information, remained to be discovered.

“Uncle David, Sam darling,” he chided with another bawdy leer, reminding himself David Underwood might have seen Samantha as a baby, but he didn’t know her. What made her laugh, or cry. How she kissed or the sounds she made when she came. And he absolutely could not look at her like she was a perfectly cooked buffet and him a starving man.

“All right, ah, Uncle David. Um…”

“What is on your mind, pet? May as well just ask the question. I’d hate to die wondering what you were thinking, and do note I am an elderly gentleman. Not one of these young bucks to sing a song and coax it out of you.”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. “A song would work only if it’s an ode to my toes.”

William almost slipped out of character and cupped her cheek. Instead, he made himself give her a quizzical look. “Toes? Why would anyone praise what is stuffed into shoes, carries an odor displeasing to the nose, and more often than not just plain ugly? Have you ever seen seductive toes, my dear? Been compelled to hold them to your cheek and coo sweet words of love? They serve little purpose, and are not saved by tasting delicious.”

“I admit I have never studied feet as closely as you have, Uncle David,” she replied, her eyes bright with mirth as she bit her lip. Christ, that soft, tender bottom lip. “Or, um, tasted them.”

“I suppose not. Those in London are far too stuffy. You know, my dear, if you came to Cornwall, you would be the belle of every ball. There would be gentlemen lining up for miles to praise your toes. Or,” he coughed suggestively, “other plumper parts.”

Samantha’s gaze narrowed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Ah!” he cried, clutching his chest. “I am chastised. I shan’t mention bosoms or bottoms or hips.”

“Mr. Underwood.”

“Well! That was a truly perfect governess tone. Wherever did you learn that?”

She sighed. “After finishing school it wasn’t time for me to return to London, so I remained to teach the younger pupils. I could scold you all evening, sir.”

“While that sounds more interesting than off-putting, pet, I believe you had a question for me?”

She glanced left and right, then took a step closer. “Why did you do it?”

William froze. “Do what?”

“Whatever shocking thing you did to become the black sheep,” she whispered. “Are you so very unredeemable?”

“I’m sixty years old, pet. So thoroughly unredeemable,” he replied, relaxing. “If you are asking about my shockingly expensive indulgence in food and drink and fashion, because I like it. If you are asking about my shockingly wicked habit of spending countless hours at play in the bedchambers of ladies not my own, well, because I like that too.”

Samantha tilted her head. “I think you might be lonely since your wife died. When you have known something wonderful, it is horrible to have it snatched away. And when you are lonely, it is easy to walk down the wrong path.”

Words—the wrong words—leaped to the tip of his tongue. He wanted to drag her out of Alexander’s theater box and ask her straight out if she was a traitor like her father. If she had deliberately betrayed him to the French. If she had bedded other men while he’d been gone. Yet there wasn’t a thing he could do except keep a slightly smug, partially drunk, and totally lecherous smile pinned to his face.

Or at least what once was his face.

It had been beyond disconcerting earlier in the evening, after Barclay had daubed and pinned and brushed and glued, to look at himself in the mirror and not recognize who he saw. Thanks to the makeup and shading, he now had wrinkles which faded his dark blue eyes and made them look smaller, almost beady. His hair had been powdered and coated in some fetid goo to plaster it to his head, and then a shabby wig had been attached. An old-fashioned, high-pointed collar two sizes too small had made his neck vanish while plumping skin over the top so he appeared to have the weakest of jaws. All in all, he looked quite revolting. How David Underwood had ever been considered a ladies’ man, he would never know.

Yanking himself back to the present, William tsked. “So serious, Sam darling! Usually one has to be deep in their cups to be so philosophical. Have you been drinking? Sneaking swigs of your papa’s brandy? Must say, he puts my supplies to shame.”

She gazed at him with such acute disappointment for his flippant answer, he almost apologized. Except that was something his character would never do. As evidenced by the pistol, broom, and geese-inflicted injuries the real David Underwood was currently nursing somewhere.

“I know about being alone. And being lonely,” she blurted. “I’m sorry I said anything. Please excuse me.”

“Don’t go,” he replied, his hand jerking out to circle her wrist before he could even think about the wrongness of the gesture. For God’s sake. That was struggling William Hastings, not lecherous, devil-may-care Underwood. “If you stay, I’ll even attempt to behave—”

“Underwood,” cut in a deep, frigid voice. “I cannot think of a single adequate reason for you to be grasping Lady Samantha’s wrist. I suggest you let her go at once.”

William glanced at Alexander. His best friend looked ready to do violence. Well, the feeling was mutual. “No need to get your drawers in a bunch there, dukie. Sam and I were just having a friendly little chat.”

“No more chats. Lady Samantha, we’re leaving now.”

“Oh. Are we?” Samantha replied uncertainly.

“Indeed. And the dowager wants to know if you wish to return to Sackville Street or stay the night at Forsyth House. It’s no trouble either way,” Alexander continued, resting his hand on the curve of her waist but staring directly at him.

William’s breath hissed between his teeth. Was his former best friend warning him away? Forget simple violence, only a headfirst plummet over the railing and into the pits would do for the bastard now. That arm at her waist was far, far, too proprietary.

“Well,” said Samantha quickly. “In that case, I’d prefer Forsyth House. Mother and Papa both had plans for the evening, and I feel like a pea in a barrel when I’m at home by myself!”

“Of course. Well, let’s be off then. Underwood,” Alexander finished icily, giving him the ducal stare of death.

“Southby,” he replied chirpily, bowing low. “And, Sam, my darling, it certainly has been a treat to see you again, all grown up.”

Alexander tucked her hand under his arm and near-dragged her away, but she glanced back and gave him a small smile. “Goodnight, Uncle David. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“Goodnight, pet,” he called.

Meet again? Oh, you can count on it.