Paulette pushed through the library door and held her candle higher. Other than her own little pool of light, the room was shadowed. She could not see more than a few feet in front of her.

That sickening perfume swirled in the drafty room. Agruen was here somewhere, sitting in the dark, waiting to spook her.

Perhaps she should have gone ahead and met in the kitchens as he’d wanted, but somehow the library seemed safer.

Drawing too close to him would be foolish. Everyone else was abed. There was no Lord Bakeley here to come around the corner and rescue her.

So she must rescue herself, and she’d come armed for it.

She felt her way to the wall and circled around, spotting a candelabra on a table, and lighting the candles with her own.

That was better. She set down her candlestick. Warm light showed a high shelf filled with leather bound volumes. In other circumstances, she would love to explore them.

The curtains were drawn over a nearby window, and she opened them, casting a scant pool of light from a waning moon.

A low chuckle nearby made her hair stand.

“You are undoing all my dark work.” The voice was a growl, but easily recognizable as Agruen’s.

Paulette scuttled back to the light, knocking into a chair, the clatter reverberating through the room.

Agruen moved out of the darkness, his neck cloth loose over a flopping shirt. The scent of stale alcohol mixed with his overpowering cologne and a smell like a ripening privy. It had not been so powerful during that interminable dinner.

She caught her breath and steadied it. “Do not approach closer. I am not here for a tryst, Agruen. You have something of mine, and I want it back.”

He laughed and took an intimidating step. “You are accusing me of theft?”

“You took a ring of mine. Don’t try to deny it. A maid saw it in your chambers at Cransdall. You must give it back.”

“Must I?” He stepped up to the table and she went to the other side. The candle flame flashed in front of him, like the fires of hell.

“It was my mother’s.”

Not that Mama had valued it. Paulette had found it after her mother died, a strange, lopsided ring too large for small fingers. She’d worn it around her neck on a chain, wondering about the mystery of it, wondering if it had aught to do with the treasure.

“It could have no meaning to you,” she said.

Except as a means of tormenting a girl without friends.

She squeezed her lips shut. She might be friendless, but she was not without resources. Her hand slipped through the slit in her skirt and eased the knife higher in its sheath.

In spite of Jock’s tutoring, a strong man could take it from her, Mabel had warned her once. Agruen would not be so strong. He was drunk, dissipated, weak. And disgusting.

“You look like hell, Agruen, and you smell like death.”

His lips pulled back in a ghastly sneer. “That ring of your mother’s is part of a puzzle ring, lovely Paulette. Did you know that?”

The skin on her back rippled and her hand shook around the blade handle. She eased in another breath.

She hadn’t known, but a puzzle made sense. The design had an off-center design like the curved fingers and thumb of a hand. “Of course,” she said.

“And did you not wonder where the other piece was?”

“How could I if I didn’t know there was another piece?” She put up a hand. “Come no closer.”

He snickered. “I have its match, little Paulette. That’s why I took your ring. I’m going to solve the puzzle.”

Her heart quickened. The puzzle. The treasure. The puzzle of where the treasure was hidden.

How could this ass have the other half of her mother’s ring? Where did he get it? And how long had he had it? If the ring had an answer, he must have found it by now.

He laughed darkly. “Close your mouth, Paulette. I can see the question on your pretty face. I got my part of this puzzle from another whore.”

Heat surged into her cheeks.

Composure, Paulette. Unman your opponent with your calm.

Jock’s words failed to compose her. She eased in a breath. “My mother was not a whore.”

She was a spy.

“Was she not? Yet she had the other half of a whore’s ring.”

Her next breath was deeper. “No. The whore had her other half, if there even was a whore. And I want it back. In fact, you’ve had years to solve the puzzle. You might as well give me both pieces.”

He circled the table and gripped her arm. She tried to wrench away, but he stayed fixed, his hand firm. Panic built in her.

Just like with Cummings, she had underestimated this man’s strength.

“What have you got there, Paulette, under your skirt?”

His chuckle sent fear raging through her and breath whooshed out of her. Before she could catch it back for a scream, Agruen went flying back into the darkness with loud thuds and grunts.

“Are you all right, then, miss?” Thomas appeared at her side.

She quivered and shook, but praise God, the boy didn’t notice, and didn’t really expect her to speak. He was riveted upon the dark action beyond the light.

“Lay off,” Agruen yelled. “What are you doing?”

“What were you doing to the lady?”

Her heart skipped a beat. This last growl had issued from Mr. Gibson.

He’d come to her rescue. Her heart swelled and clanged against her breastbone.

And then plummeted. He’d known about this meeting.

Heat rose in her and she snagged Thomas’s sleeve. “You followed me.”

The boy’s gaze jerked to her. He blinked.

Gad, she could take lessons in lying from this boy. Her anger died, a laugh bubbling up. Yes, he’d followed her, and thank God for it.

Agruen came into the light, his body jerked up unnaturally, his shirt stretching his neck higher.

Mr. Gibson was behind him.

The door opened and more light suffused the room.

Paulette’s cheeks heated again. Damn it all, she’d been a fool. She’d walked into another of Agruen’s traps, only this one would turn into a fine spectacle and end with her being sent away again with another keeper like Mrs. Everly. Only now she had no home to go to except perhaps Cransdall.

And she wasn’t going there.

Dressed only in a belted banyan, Lord Hackwell stepped closer, a candle held high. “What’s afoot, Gibson?” he asked, calmly.

Mr. Gibson released Agruen and wiped his hands together. “Just helping his lordship here to his feet.” His voice was steady. There was even a trace of humor.

He was covering for her.

She blinked. He and Thomas had come in together. He’d set the boy to look after her.

He wanted to protect her, but he didn’t want her.

She cleared her throat. “I…had trouble sleeping. I came in for a book.”

Agruen refastened his waistcoat. “Indeed. And I happened to be in here.” He looked up, his evil grin back in place. “And I say, Hackwell, I will not marry her, if that is what she was planning.”

She gasped. “How dare you.”

“Indeed, you will not marry the young lady,” Mr. Gibson said, all humor gone.

“Are you well, Miss Heardwyn?” Hackwell asked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Gibson,” Hackwell said, “see to the lady.” He looked hard at Agruen. “As long as you’re here, Agruen, let’s have another dram of whisky. Or do you prefer brandy? I’ve a fine bottle here somewhere.” He nodded at Mr. Gibson and led the other man into the shadows.

Mr. Gibson’s large hand swallowed hers, sending his strength coursing through her and, now that the threat was gone, settling her trembling.

Bakeley hadn’t taken her hand when he rescued her in the garden at Cransdall four years ago. But then, she hadn’t realized it was a rescue until later.

“Thomas, off to bed,” Mr. Gibson said.

“But—”

She couldn’t see the look Mr. Gibson gave the boy, but it moved him along. Thomas wished her a good night and crept away into the dark corridor.

“Close the door on your way out, Gibson,” Lord Hackwell called.

Mr. Gibson picked up her candle and led her out of the room. “Come along. As I recall, you enjoyed the brandy at Cransdall. You could use a spot of it tonight.”

* * *

The lady’s quaking urged Bink to hold more than her tiny chilled hand. A damned dangerous slope, that, with a snare at the bottom, but one he was having trouble resisting.

He let go of Paulette’s hand and wrapped an arm around her, and fought the urge to let his hand slip further, down to the backside he’d had a handful of the day they’d first met.

She was slight, but not fragile. She hadn’t changed out of the gown she’d worn at dinner, and from this angle he could see that handsome bosom, kissed by the dark curls escaping from the pins at the back of her head. Willowy, she was, but womanly also.

Desire uncurled in him and his shaft stirred. Aye, Shaldon had laid him a clever trap.

“Thomas told you where I was,” she said, breathless.

“Yes.”

“Why were you there?”

“I was eavesdropping,” he said, keeping his voice mild.

She inhaled sharply.

“I wanted to see what you had to discuss with Agruen, as you so obviously found him disagreeable earlier.”

Her body stiffened. They had reached his quarters, and he opened the door and urged her in.

She locked her knees and dug in the heels of the feminine slippers peeking from under her skirt. “Where are you taking me?”

“This is my sitting room.”

“My reputation—”

“Paulette. You were willing to meet Agruen privately tonight. Do you fear me more?”

She swallowed. Sighed. “Perhaps you are the greater danger, Mr. Gibson.” Her shoulders moved with another sigh and she walked through the open door.

His breath caught, desire rising. Like a fool, he followed her in.

He lit candles until the room was bright enough for him to see the tiniest of beauty marks on one of her cheeks and then crossed the room and opened a window, letting in a fresh breeze that rippled through the flames, the light dancing over her skin. Bink turned away and poured the drinks and tried to quell the yearning to touch her.

She had seated herself in the straight-backed chair the housekeeper usually occupied when she came to discuss accounts. He handed her a glass and sat opposite her.

She twirled the amber liquid. “I love the look of this in a fine crystal glass. It’s so lovely the way it sparkles in the candlelight.”

More stirring within him. The lass had depths. And courage. And intelligence. She was not a shrew, or a hysteric. She had seen through his plan to save her embarrassment and played right along.

“You are lovely,” he blurted.

Her head jerked up, and a devil within him made him pitch his voice lower. “Could you but see yourself now, you are sparkling in the candlelight.”

She scooted to the edge of her seat, ready to bolt, he’d warrant.

“Stay, lass. I won’t leave this chair.” Unless you wish it. Desire percolated within him and beat in his ears. For too long he’d had only the administrations of his own hand.

He gave himself an imperceptible shake. And it must stay that way. They had matters to discuss. “So the Marquess of Agruen is a thief. I’m not surprised. When he was a mere Mr. Josiah Dickson, I came very close to thrashing the cur in Spain.”

Paulette’s mouth dropped open and her countenance darkened. “I would that you had.”

His pulse drummed harder and an ache came along with the pictures in his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to dispel the memory. A woman beaten half to death. Bink beating the man Dickson named as the culprit. Then, weeks later, Dickson on top of a girl barely old enough to bleed.

Bloody liar. Bloody rapist. Bink had been pulled off Dickson, well before getting justice.

“He has a ring that was my mother’s.” Her low voice brought him back from his shadows. “I want it back. And, as you probably heard, there’s a second ring, part of a puzzle—”

“I’ve seen such, with a third part, a heart.”

She blinked and chewed on her lip.

“You would like to know where he got the other part.”

She clenched her hands. “My mother was not a-a whore.”

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “To a man like Agruen, all women are whores. The lady who had that other half of the ring was not likely a whore either.”

She nodded, picked up her glass, and took a drink.

“Let me help you. Will you tell me why it’s so important?”

She set the glass down carefully and lifted her eyes.

Ah. She was crafting a lie.

“It was something of hers, is all, and I have so little. I found it among her things when she died.”

“It seems a small thing. Are there no other jewels?”

“A few trinkets. A few items of clothing. One letter she kept from my father.”

Her gaze slid away and she bit her lip, as if mentioning the letter had been a mistake. It must be important.

“Did she not leave you that wee knife you have hidden under your skirt?”

Her eyes went wide.

“Or is it a wee pistol?”

Her lips firmed and he waited.

“It is a dagger.” The frown she sent him was mulish. “And it was hers. As was this dress, though I made it over a few years ago. You’re thinking it is dreadfully old-fashioned.”

Men don’t notice much below the bodice and yours is very fine indeed. “I didn’t pay heed to the fashion of the dress, only that it is very becoming. May I see your blade?”

She inserted a hand into a slit in her skirt and drew out a five-inch blade, sharpened to a gleaming point. She flipped it around and presented it to him.

And his breath caught at the trust she was showing. He cupped his hands under hers without removing the blade. A shiver went through her and he noted her hands were still cold.

“You are chilled. Shall I close the window?”

She shook her head. “What do you think? What kind of knife is this?”

He took it gently from her and turned it over. A Celtic knot looped through the hasp of the squat blade. “This is a dirk. Scottish. It’s a lovely blade. Looks to be well-balanced.” He touched a finger to the edge. “Very sharp. You are carrying it sheathed?”

“Yes.”

“May I see the sheath?”

Even in the candlelight, he could tell she was coloring deeply. “It is fastened to my leg.”

Visions assaulted him again—Paulette, lifting her skirts, those trim ankles, a garter high on firm thighs. Stubborn need surged into his loins. He leaned back and rested one ankle on the opposite knee. It was impolite, but expedient. “I would like to see the sheath some time also, if you would permit. Did your mother carry this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s another thing I found among her things when she died. She must have. This dress has several pockets and slits. And…there are pistols also.”

“She did not talk about the knife and pistols?”

“No.”

Her grandparents came from the peninsula, Bakeley had said. Her mother had weapons squirreled away. She’d told Agruen her mother was British. Her father had been one of Shaldon’s men.

Was her mother a spy also? “And what of this puzzle Agruen plans to solve?”

She shook her head and looked away. “I don’t know.”

That might or might not be true. He tried a different tack. “What is your plan?”

“As I told you, I’m going to London. I’m going to speak with a solicitor named Tellingford, and my trustees if I can find them. And I did plan to find Agruen. I want my mother’s ring back.” She frowned. “Perhaps he has it with him.”

Why a man would carry such a ring on a hunting trip, Bink couldn’t imagine, but he kept the thought to himself.

He saw her frown transform into hard determination. His nerves came to attention. “Leave that bit of searching to me.”

She inched a little closer on the edge of her seat. “Truly?”

Truly, and how, he did not know, for the man surely had a valet with him. Hackwell would keep the villain in thrall for a while, discussing his parliamentary scheme, and in view of Paulette’s pestering and Hackwell’s politicking, Agruen would likely leave in the morning.

But then, the man was good at assaulting women and running away.

Bink stood. “Come, lass. Let us get you back to your room.” He took her hand and drew her up. Light as a lamb, she was. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he blew out the candles. He could do without light if he was going to go searching.

In the darkness, she seemed to draw closer, smelling like flowers and good soap. She fitted snugly against him, her hip bumping his, her hand gripping his arm as they climbed the stairs. Need swelled again in him, sending an ache through his loins.

He could have this. He could have the woman, the estate, and the settled life so easily. All it would take would be a bit of seduction, and he’d had practice at that. He knew how it was done.

Though he had never seduced an innocent. The widows and opera dancers he’d taken had played the game too.

And he was going to India.

“Can you see in the dark?” Her low murmur vibrated along his upper arm and into his chest, sending a new ripple through him.

They had reached her door. He slipped her hand away and leaned closer. “Yes and I’ll be on the lookout for a wee lass moving about in these halls.”

Her soft chuckle smelled like sweet brandy. His hands found their way around her waist.

“Will you please stay in your room, Paulette?”

“You’ll help me?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

The touch of her lips was like a hot brand. In the dark, she’d landed the kiss on his neck.

Oh, aye, he could see in the dark. He found her mouth and pressed his lips onto hers, wanting to taste, trying to be gentle.