He hadn’t slept all night. How could he, after the two cannonballs that had been delivered yesterday, first by Lord Havenhurst, then by Samantha and her bloody damned assassin-like knife throw, plus a stitched up shoulder that hurt like the very devil?

But his family history—no, not history but mystery—was the oldest lie. So here he was, pacing White’s office like a caged tiger ready to pounce.

“I want the full story about my father,” said William sharply. “No more falsehoods, evasions, or half-truths. And I want it right now.”

Moving a pile of paperwork to one side then sitting back in his chair, White sighed. “The truth of the matter is, Standish, and I swear this on my mother’s grave, I don’t know the full story. Despite what many think, I wasn’t born in this chair.”

“Well, what do you know?”

“I was only a clerk back then, and the powers that be refused to release anything in relation to the events before and after what unfolded on that road. I understand the men responsible had strong connections to a fledgling but brutal sect of French sympathizers. I understand they disappeared off the face of the earth after the deed was done, not surfacing again in England until at least two years later.”

“To your knowledge.”

“Standish, try and understand the position the authorities were in. The outcry if it became known a senior peer of the realm and his wife had been murdered by English traitors, and not been apprehended, would have been utterly untenable for the Home Office.”

William rubbed a hand slowly over his face. It was either that or swear himself hoarse and punch several holes in the wall. In the space of a day, all blinkers about his past had been well and truly removed. The debacle with Samantha was one thing, but this was another matter entirely. Everything he thought he had known about his father, all his own years working within the bloody Home Office, had been a lie. This new awareness felt like a rusty, jagged knife plunging hard into his gut. Lies. So many fucking lies!

He pinned White with a gaze. “Is it still the same group you are trying to bring down? Even after all these years?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

“So the criminals who killed my parents could have been responsible for the deaths of hundreds or thousands of others in the years since? Right this very minute, they could be murdering innocent men and women because of the sheer incompetence of this division—”

“There is no need to state the facts to me, Standish. You think I am not well aware of the atrocities being committed in every village, town, and city in this country? Believe me, I know! I know them all. In fact, we were delivered a parcel just the other day. Two severed heads, neatly wrapped with a satin bow. You know who they were? Two well-trained spies who volunteered to join the enemy and had been providing us with solid information. On Claremont. So although I am sorrier than I can say at what happened to you, your parents are not the only victims.”

William froze. “Christ.”

“I understand your anger and frustration. Now imagine it tenfold. We were so close this time to making arrests, bringing these bastards to trial and seeing them hang for high treason. But they are cunning, fearless, and move like evil shadows in the night. They don’t attend tea parties with ‘villain’ painted on their backs.”

“Have you caught any of them? Any at all?”

White sighed. “Of course we have. But it seems no matter how carefully they are guarded, no matter how secure the prison, they either escape or are mysteriously found dead. This group are not pretenders. They are perhaps the greatest threat to our country in history. The French are on their way, and these traitors are lighting their path. And with every success, more poor and hungry and disenchanted Englishmen flock to join them.”

Slumping into a chair, William rubbed a weary hand over his face. Suddenly he felt one hundred years old. As the saying went, a little knowledge was a dangerous thing. And what he’d learned in the past day was enough to near-destroy him. “Then what do you plan to do? I can’t keep up this ridiculous David Underwood charade. Especially when it is obvious Lady Samantha can take care of herself.”

“Really? How so?”

“She throws knives like a bloody assassin. Demonstrated the fact right in front of me yesterday in Hyde Park, when a thief ran past and she felled him with a goddamned dagger to the backside. A weapon she just happened to have in her goddamned reticule.”

White’s bushy ginger eyebrows nearly catapulted back over his head. “A knife thrower? So, the chit does have secrets then. Perhaps as many as Claremont. This means we need you more than ever.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because Lady Samantha is now our only hope for success, and you are the only person I can trust absolutely to watch her. You have access to all the places she does, you can stay within her vicinity without arousing suspicion. I’m asking—nay, begging, Standish, stay on this course. If we can trap Claremont, we may just be able to crush this ring of traitors once and for all. Including those who murdered your parents.”

William clenched his fists and stared out the window at the setting sun. There were so many reasons to turn White down. Rather than being objective and professional, he’d shared a bed with his target. And despite everything she’d done, he cared for her in a way, God help him, that he’d never cared for another woman. Yet how could he possibly stay close to Samantha and pretend everything was normal, when her newly revealed talent would make any sane man twitchy, let alone one investigating treason? If it were proven she had knowledge of or involvement in her father’s criminal activities, she could be imprisoned. Or hanged.

Nausea roiled in his stomach, and he coughed. But doing his duty, staying the course as White had put it and assisting in this mission, might well mean justice for his parents after sixteen long years. They wouldn’t have died in vain. And he would finally have vengeance against the men who had brutally destroyed his world without care or question.

Eventually he turned and stared directly at White. “Very well, I’ll continue. But only as myself. I can’t concentrate on Lady Samantha if I have to think and act as Underwood at the same time. Bring me home from France.”

The coordinator nodded. “I shall dispatch letters today informing all and sundry of your miraculous recovery and impending departure from Calais. But you must remain David Underwood long enough for the Marquess of Standish to return by ship. A few days will be sufficient. I will also organize a gaggle of physicians to greet you at the docks and escort you to Hastings House.”

“All right. Let me know when all plans are in place,” William replied, picking up his greatcoat and making his way toward the door.

“Of course. And Standish, you won’t regret this.”

He turned and gave White a granite-hard glare. “I sincerely hope not.”

* * *

Aunt Jane absolutely loved hosting balls. In the past, Stephen had apparently tried to limit her spending to just two small fortunes per Season, but this year he’d conceded her a third. Judging by the enormous crush of people attempting to get into Forsyth House, the ton were delighted at this altruistic act.

Her eyes wide, Samantha gazed around the ballroom. It had never looked so beautiful. Gold and cream silk draped the walls, oversized vases held colorful arrangements of hothouse flowers, and the polished crystal chandeliers glittered and shimmered like diamonds. In one corner an orchestra played, while in another a champagne fountain gurgled and trickled next to tables of mouth-watering delicacies.

And yet she wished she were anywhere but here.

Taking a small sip of lemonade, Samantha gritted her teeth against a wave of nausea. After a few days respite it had returned with a vengeance, and the scent of sweat and unwashed bodies mixed with cooked food had nearly seen her throw up all over her silver-trimmed ivory gown on two occasions already.

“Samantha? You’re rather quiet, m’dear. Everything all right?”

“Yes, Papa,” she replied dutifully. Actually, she still couldn’t believe he’d offered to accompany her here tonight. “Just a little overwhelmed. There are so many important people here.”

“Well, it is to be expected; Stephen is a very important man himself. And m’sister of course, unquestionably a grande dame. Plus they do serve excellent brandy. Some will come for drink alone.”

“Never you say,” she gasped in mock horror.

Her father’s lips twitched. “Impertinent baggage. Now, where are your friends? Sure I saw them somewhere.”

“I think they are next to the red rose arrangement.”

Lord Claremont nodded, and they slowly inched their way through the crowd of men in immaculate formalwear and ladies swathed in silks and jewels, until she spotted Stephen in a circle with Aunt Jane, Caroline, Lord and Lady Trentham, Lord Ardmore and, she noted with some relief, Mr. Underwood. Excellent. She hadn’t frightened him away.

“Westleigh, Jane,” said her father, bowing. “Lovely party, as always. Evening to the rest of you as well.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” replied Stephen stiffly. “Will you have a brandy?”

“Love to, m’boy, but I must drop my pretty package off and away. Politics and hunting to discuss, you know how it is.”

“Of course. Enjoy your evening.”

“Will do, will do,” said her father, and in seconds he had gone.

“My goodness!” Samantha said too-brightly into the awkward silence. “Aunt Jane, you’ve outdone yourself. The ballroom looks wonderful.”

“I should hope so,” Stephen muttered. “She spent a bloody king’s ransom. An entire estate’s worth of flowers and a champagne fountain.”

“Oh, give over, Westleigh,” laughed Lord Ardmore. “You secretly love propping up the British economy each year. And my merchant ships live to serve your darling mama.”

Aunt Jane smiled approvingly at the Scottish marquess. “Thank you, Ardmore. Stephen, my angel, the cost of tonight’s festivities will be worth every guinea.”

“Hear, hear, Janey,” drawled Mr. Underwood. “Westleigh, dear boy, don’t be a penny pincher. You should be applauding her exquisite taste like your lovely cousin did.”

“My lovely cousin won’t be receiving the bills,” Stephen said irritably, and Samantha flipped open her fan to hide a grin.

“Oh, pish posh. Enough of such boring bill talk. Now, Sam darling, since these other gentlemen have no manners whatsoever, may I escort you to the refreshment table for some champagne?”

Her stomach lurched at the thought, but she pasted a smile on her face. “That would be lovely.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Underwood replied, tucking her arm through his and leading her away from the group.

“Actually,” she said hesitantly, “I did want to speak to you privately.”

“Oh yes? What about, pet?”

“The other day, in Hyde Park.”

“Hmmm. You mean where you did all the work and I received all the glory? My sweet girl, should you ever want to partner up like that again, I would be most willing.”

Samantha sighed in relief. “Really? I thought you were shocked beyond all. I know it is a very, ah, unusual skill for a lady to have.”

“Of course I was shocked. Isn’t every day a beautiful young blonde whips a dagger out of her reticule and hurls it at a criminal’s backside. If you wish to be my personal bodyguard, I will happily let you stay with me all day and night.”

“Mr. Underwood,” Samantha said severely, biting her lip so she didn’t laugh.

“What? A man can dream, can he not? But you must confess to me right now who first gave you a dagger to play with. Where did you learn to throw?”

“At school.”

His face fell. “What nonsense. If you don’t wish to share, just say so.”

“It’s true! Well, nearly true. When I was at Miss Chadwick’s, I loathed choir practice, so I used to sneak out and go visiting in the village instead. One of my favorite people there used to belong to a circus troupe. Old Gwen was a harsh teacher—I don’t know how many times I got my knuckles smacked for poor efforts—but she baked the best fruitcake I’d ever tasted. And she always gave me a thick slice to take back to my chamber.”

“My word,” he gasped. “Forget about the knife throwing, pet, I’ve just heard something far worse! Are you trying to tell me you cannot sing?”

“I’m a frog with a cold, Mr. Underwood.”

“Uncle David, remember? But how devastating. I’m deeply saddened. Crushed like an autumn leaf under my boot, and I shan’t recover, ever. To think I actually believed you to be the perfect woman.”

“I’m truly sorry to have disappointed you,” she said, laughing helplessly.

“I should hope so! One can only take so many heartbreaks in a lifetime. You’d better not have any other secrets.”

Her laughter died in her throat. “Well, I, ah—”

“Excuse me, Lady Samantha. I must speak with you urgently,” interrupted a familiar voice behind her, yet in a tone she’d never heard before. Alexander sounded almost...happy.

Curiously she turned and stared up at him, and her jaw dropped. His lips were threatening to smile, and his eyes were practically glowing. “Your grace? What is it?”

“I received a note just before I came here. William has...he’s recovered sufficiently from his wounds to travel home. He will shortly be on a ship.”

Forgetting completely who and where she was, Samantha shrieked. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yes. He could be back in just a few days.”

Elation surged through her body, making her heart pound and limbs weaken as tears blurred her vision. Finally to be holding William in her arms, breathing in his scent, and hearing his voice. Just like in her dreams. She’d tell him about the baby, and he’d be pleased. Ask her to marry him so they could be a family. And never again would either of them be lonely.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, and a wave of dizziness hit. She staggered, and an arm curled around her waist.

“Samantha? Are you all right?”

Feeling decidedly foggy, she stared up at David Underwood. How odd that while the rest of him was so soft, his arm could be solid and strong. And how had she never noticed what a beautiful blue his eyes were? The hue of a summer sky, just like William’s.

Samantha groaned and pressed her fingers to her aching forehead. Obviously Alexander’s wonderful news had caused her to lose her mind entirely. Only a complete lunatic would see William Hastings’ eyes in David Underwood’s face. “Fine. I just need some fresh air.”

“Of course,” he said quickly, cradling her in his right arm, sounding more serious than she’d ever heard him speak. “Let me just—”

“I’ll see to Lady Samantha,” growled Alexander, and before she could protest, he’d pulled her from the other man’s grasp and tucked her arm through his. “Underwood, if you’d inform the dowager that her niece is unwell and I’ve escorted her out to the east garden steps to take the air?”

For the first time in their acquaintance, David Underwood looked neither jovial, wicked, nor shocked. Just furious. But then he bowed stiffly.

“As you wish, your grace,” he said in a tone as cold as any Alexander had ever used.

“Thank you, Uncle David,” Samantha said, reaching out to take his gloved hand. “For everything.”

He squeezed her fingers, his shoulders relaxing. “Feel better soon, pet.”

Then he turned on his heel and strode away. Inexplicably she felt bereft, which was ridiculous. For heaven’s sake, David Underwood was old enough to be her grandfather. If anyone knew how safe she had felt with his arm around her, how she’d actually been tempted to cuddle closer against him, she would be laughed out of London.

Shuddering, Samantha shook her head to remove the ludicrous thoughts, and immediately regretted it when her stomach turned upside down.

“Lady Samantha? Are you all right? You look...green.”

“No,” she mumbled, pressing a fist to her mouth. “Please get me outside, Alexander. Hurry.”

His eyes widened and he half-led, half-carried her to the double doors leading toward the garden, barreling his way through the throng of bodies as only a duke could. As soon as they got outside, she wrenched away from him and sprinted behind a large clump of bushes where she was horribly, ingloriously ill.

“All right?” Alexander asked sympathetically as he crouched down and handed her the cup of lemonade she’d been holding before her mad dash for privacy. “I remember the first time I overindulged, it wasn’t a pretty sight. One of the main reasons I refrain from drinking too much nowadays.”

Samantha sighed and took a tentative sip. “It’s not that. I haven’t touched a drop of champagne tonight.”

“You must have eaten something bad then.”

Smiling ruefully, she allowed him to help her over to a wooden bench beside a small stone fountain. “No. I’m...I’m going to have a baby, Alexander.”

He stared at her like she’d started speaking in an unknown foreign tongue. “What?”

“I’m with child. In an interesting condition. Enceinte, as they say,” she replied, almost grinning at his dumbfounded expression.

“Pregnant? You mean Will...” he coughed and cleared his throat, “...iam’s going to be a father?”

“Indeed.”

“What marvelous news. I’m so pleased. So very, very pleased,” he announced gruffly, pulling her into an awkward hug.

“Careful,” she admonished with a laugh, “Your rocking is making me seasick!”

“Sorry. But what an evening. William coming home, and a baby. I’ll expect a wedding invitation post-haste. And to be godfather, of course.”

“I don’t know,” Samantha said teasingly, “Only the very best of candidates need apply for such a lofty position.”

“Naturally. I can provide better references than Stephen, though. Would the king do? Or maybe you and William would prefer a political-leaning recommendation and accept the word of the Prime Minister?”

Rolling her eyes, Samantha laughed. Yet it was tinged with sadness. It shouldn’t be Alexander, but William sitting here, smiling, teasing, and hugging her. Never had she missed him more than right at this moment.

He might be home in a few days, but they would be the longest days of her life.

* * *

He had thought he’d known pain and could process it. That after his parents’ murder, the deaths of Uncle Andrew and Gregory, even being shot in France possibly because of Samantha, nothing could make him flinch or miss a step again.

He was wrong.

“I’m with child. In an interesting condition. Enceinte, as they say.”

“Pregnant? You mean I’m going to be a father?”

“Indeed.”

“Well. What marvelous news. I’m so pleased. So very, very pleased.”

The words tore through William’s body like a poisoned spear, slashing and maiming without mercy. Alongside the sight etched into his brain of Samantha in Alexander’s arms. Joyfully celebrating the news of their impending child.

It had taken every fiber of his being to remain concealed and silent behind the pillar. To not bellow a denial and cut a swathe of destruction through Aunt Jane’s garden at their shocking betrayal, the woman he’d cared for most and the man who had supposedly been his best friend. The man whose brother he had gone to France to rescue. But once they’d begun to embrace, he’d been unable to stomach a second more and left the place.

The Marquess of Standish, prize idiot. So many had told him about Alexander and Samantha. Some maliciously, like the French assassin. Some matter of fact, like White. Bloody hell, even the couple themselves had openly demonstrated their affection for one another. Alexander with his cold-eyed silent warnings and deliberate touches. Samantha with her fond smiles and veiled references to Alexander’s high-level duties. He’s a busy man with a great many responsibilities.

His eyes burning, his throat raw with the taste of the bile, William picked up a tiny figurine in the statue-lined hallway and hurled it at the wall. Smiled grimly when it shattered into a thousand pieces. Then he continued on. Just along here was a library, a room hopefully free of guests and containing enough brandy and whisky so he could drink and drink until he forgot he’d ever had feelings for a beautiful, faithless bitch like Lady Samantha Buchanan, or been best friends with the worst of bastards like Alexander Langley, Duke of Southby.

Finally he reached the library. Shoving open the door, he stepped inside the lavishly furnished room with its thick rugs, overstuffed chairs and priceless paintings. Then he slammed the heavy oak shut, leaned back on it, and closed his eyes.

Peace at last.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Underwood,” said an amused voice, “you look like a man in dire need of a large drink.”

William’s eyes flew open in horror. Of all the rooms in all the hallways in Forsyth House, he had to choose the one already occupied. And naturally, as luck would have it, the man reclining in an armchair, his feet resting on an embroidered footstool as he sipped from a crystal glass, was the king bastard of them all. The traitorous Earl of Claremont himself.

“Forgive me, my lord. I thought this room to be empty.”

“No matter. Come in and put your feet up. My nephew keeps a most excellent supply. Go on, help yourself, I already have and they like you far more than me.”

“I doubt that very much. Janey is a saint and Westleigh resigns himself, but the rest of them tolerate me at most. Ah well,” William finished with a careless shrug as he filled a glass of brandy to the brim and lifted it in a salute, “C’est la vie.”

Claremont tilted his head and stared at him, the moment so long that acute unease iced his veins. How had anyone ever thought this man a foolish drunk? Unlike his daughter’s wide, warm brown eyes, the earl’s were cold and dark with ruthless calculation. Bloody hell. Be careful.

Abruptly the earl grinned and raised his glass. “C’est la vie, indeed.”

“So, Claremont, what brings you to this cozy corner? Hope I’m not interrupting anything. Would hate to think someone is crouching behind the curtains because I didn’t make myself scarce.”

“No, I’m quite alone. I had some business earlier in the evening, but that is done. You find me in retreat from the creatures in the ballroom; not my first choice of evening companions.”

William’s lips twisted before he could control the movement. “Mine either.”

“Always knew we had much in common, Underwood. It’s been a long time since you’ve been to town—tell me, did you ever take another wife? Father a few children, perhaps?”

“No,” he replied curtly, his fingers tightening on his brandy glass as he took a long swallow. “I prefer to be unwed, if you must know the truth.”

“Ah. I envy you. Wives are nothing but trouble, and as for children...you’ve spent a little time with Samantha, so I hear?”

“I have, yes. A most interesting young lady.”

Claremont frowned. “Hmmm. Unfortunately, London has quite changed her. Used to be a sweet little thing, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, even struck up a friendship with the insufferably dull Standish. He might have been a good husband, although her marital duty would have been a chore. But then he went to France and my word, did she free the shackles.”

“Oh?”

The earl laughed. “Samantha quite fell under Southby’s spell. Spent so much time with him, all hours of the day and night. Whenever he clicked his fingers, she would be over at Langley House...I saw her happy exhaustion when she came home. Obviously there is one room that frigid man melts, the duke must have had her again and again and again.”

“How scandalous,” William replied in his best bored voice. “But you did nothing to stop it?”

“Why would I?” Claremont drawled, taking another sip of brandy. “A doting papa would never deny his daughter her heart’s desire. Besides, a little carelessness, a hasty wedding, and Samantha is a duchess. Or even if his fevered rutting between her thighs doesn’t put a babe in her belly, she’ll still have an extremely powerful friend.”

“This is true.”

“Ack. If only my wife was as discerning as her daughter when it comes to fucking all and sundry. Who knows where the Buchanans might be right now...”

The sound of glass shattering was unnaturally loud in the cozy tranquility of the room. Glancing down as the sharp scent of brandy perfumed the library, William stared at the tumbler he’d just crushed in his hand.

“Good God, are you all right, Underwood? They don’t make crystal like they used to, do they? Let me pour you another drink.”

William shook his head. Christ, he would need ten baths to scrub this evening away. “Don’t bother. I really should be getting back to the ballroom.”

“Wait. Never say I offended you! I thought, like myself, you were a man of the world.”

“I believe our definition of worldliness is somewhat different.”

“Ah. Perhaps, as practically family, you are miffed on Standish’s behalf? Don’t be. I sympathize fully with the marquess’s plight. He goes to France to rescue his friend’s brother, and all the while said friend is relentlessly plowing his field. That is cold. And to make matters worse, Standish is shot twice. I do hope he fully recovers. Bullet wounds to the left shoulder can be nasty devilish things if they become infected.”

Traitor! You traitorous fucking bastard!

William laughed through his blinding rage. “Fret not, my lord. The would-be assassin was as incompetent as the rest of his countrymen, failed utterly in his mission, and was executed. The bullet wounds you speak of are actually just scratches, and the marquess will be back in London within days.”

Claremont’s eyes flared with anger, and he slowly got to his feet. Stretching like a cat in front of a fireplace, he absently scratched his rotund stomach.

William froze. The whole thing had just shifted slightly to the right. Claremont’s obesity, his jowls and brandy flush, were as fake as David Underwood’s.

“You are staring, sir,” said Claremont softly.

“On the contrary, my lord. I’m merely deep in thought.”

“Oh? Do share.”

“It’s a funny thing, really,” William mused. “Went to the theater not long ago, and as I watched the actors, I couldn’t help noticing the belly padding and thick makeup they wore. Looked frightfully uncomfortable.”

Claremont stilled. “What an interesting topic to suddenly spring to mind. But I’m sure you realize the actors are only doing what is necessary to perform their roles. And there is a difference in those who are wholly dedicated to their craft and those who dabble. The serious actors have a long and illustrious career. The dabblers get shoved off the stage into oblivion. To protect the integrity of the troupe, you understand.”

“Even if the troupe has no integrity whatsoever?”

“So inflammatory! Such opinions are often learned at a father’s knee. Well, if the father and mother don’t come to an unfortunate bloody end, that is. Would be such a shame if history repeated itself. Déjà vu, as the French say.”

“It won’t,” William replied easily, wishing he had a weapon to kill this unspeakably evil bastard right now. “Instead, the troupe will be no more. Good evening, Claremont.”

“Good evening, my lo...excuse me, my dear Mr. Underwood. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again very soon. Sans masks?”

Baring his teeth in a travesty of a smile, William inclined his head as he opened the library door. “I look forward to it.”