Alaric stood before the cheval looking glass in his dressing room. While his valet fussed with the folds of his cravat, Alaric’s thoughts returned to the letter he’d received from the dowager duchess. Lady Patrice’s spidery cursive had spilled over several pages, with words like “Catastrophe,” “Doom,” and “Rescue” written in underlined capitals.

His aunt had always had a flair for the dramatic.

The idea of her coming here, filling his house with her nervous, overabundant concern, made him cringe. He’d sent off a reply assuring her that he was fine and telling her to stay put in Lanarkshire. Although he was indebted to Lady Patrice—she’d done her best by him, after all—her constant worries about his health and happiness were draining to say the least.

His plan to find himself a new duchess was, in part, a means to ward her off. Since Laura’s death, the dowager had offered tireless support, once again taking over the mistress’ duties at Strathmore Castle. Having run the household during her husband’s reign, she’d declared it was no trouble at all. Alaric’s gratitude had quickly transformed into an intense desire for escape.

Hence, he’d arrived at the solution: find himself a new wife and retire his aunt to the dowager house for good.

Of course, finding a lady who could rub along with his aunt wouldn’t be easy. Laura and Patrice had fought like two well-bred cats, polite in public, hissing and clawing in private. An idea had germinated over the last few days, and for an instant, he allowed himself to consider it: how would Emma and Lady Patrice get along?

His ethereal, nervy aunt would likely expire from the shock of Emma’s arrow-straight directness.

Yet as mad as the notion was, the idea of making Emma his duchess held a certain ... appeal. Once the possibility had nudged itself into his head, he couldn’t help but ponder it. Thanks to her meddling, his search for a wife had been thwarted. Her testimony against him had tainted his reputation, and, even with its retraction, the scandal would take time to fade. He didn’t want to waste another Season looking for a wife.

Not when he had a perfectly good candidate staring him in the face.

“The jade or gold cufflinks, Your Grace?”

“Jade,” he murmured.

Hell, Emma had made a hash of his marriage plans; she owed him a duchess. And marriage would actually give him control over her. She would carry his name. Eventually his child.

His loins stirred at the thought.

Aye, that was the most compelling reason of all: he would no longer have to deny his sexual attraction to her. He could bed her as often, as thoroughly as he wished. Night after night, he could bring about her passionate surrender.

As his valet helped him into his jacket, Alaric told himself not to rush things. Because there would be clear drawbacks to marrying Emma as well—the main one being that he’d never have a moment’s peace again. She was the most headstrong, tenacious woman he’d ever met ... yet he had to admit that she was generally not underhanded about it. When Emma defied him, she did so to his face.

In retrospect, he knew it had been unfair to call her manipulative, his reaction triggered by his experiences with Laura. By his dead wife’s deviousness, her ability to slyly twist him into knots of guilt and anger.

Despite the dark memory, his mouth suddenly quirked.

One could accuse Emma Kent of being many things but subtle? Not so much.

The valet stepped back. “Your Grace?”

Pushing aside his musings, Alaric flicked a look at his reflection. His arm had healed nicely, the bandage barely visible beneath the sleeve of the cutaway. He looked and felt almost as good as new.

“That’ll do, Johnston,” he said.

The valet bowed, departing as Jarvis shuffled in.

The butler held out a note. “A message arrived, Your Grace. From Mr. Cooper.”

Alaric’s senses prickled. Richard Cooper was one of the guards he’d hired at his brother’s recommendation. Like Will, Cooper had been a scout for the 95th Rifles, and recognizing the stoic ex-soldier’s skill immediately, Alaric had assigned him to a special purpose.

Alaric scanned the brief message. The hairs shot up on his nape.

Christ’s blood, I’m going to wallop her until she can’t sit for a week.

With mingled fury and fear, he pushed by the startled butler, shouting for his carriage.

* * *

“How may I assist you ... Mademoiselle Kendall, was it?” The buxom, black-haired proprietress arched a thin eyebrow.

“Um, yes. Eloise Kendall. That’s me,” Emma said.

Inwardly, she cringed. She hated lying, was terrible at it. Yet as she’d entered the shop located on a hidden lane in Covent Garden, her instincts warned her to keep her true identity and purpose concealed. Something about the place didn’t seem quite ... right.

She couldn’t put a finger on the reason, however. The boutique was sumptuously decorated in tones of cream and pale bronze. Its wares—ladies’ unmentionables that looked as expensive as those Lily had been described as wearing—were artfully displayed.

From all appearances, Madame Marieur ran a successful establishment.

Emma’s ears picked up a noise, and her gaze shot to the red curtain at the back of the shop. “What was that sound?”

“Just my girls hard at work. A shop doesn’t run itself, you know,” Madame Marieur said breezily. “Now how may I help you, chérie?”

The dressmaker’s polite manner didn’t mask the hard impatience in her onyx eyes.

Emma thought quickly. “I’m, um, in need of some undergarments.”

“I’m afraid we take clients by appointment only. We are very busy, you understand. Perhaps you will try the modiste on the next block ...” Madame Marieur pushed her toward the door.

Emma dug in her heels. “But ... but Lily said you would help me.”

The dressmaker halted, her eyes narrowing. “Lily White sent you? To me?”

Lily White? Was that the maid’s real name? “Er, yes.” Gretchen’s words flashed through Emma’s brain. “She said you would offer me the, um, special discount?”

“I see.” Her ploy must have worked because the impatient gleam left Madame’s eyes, replaced by one of ... interest? “I would not have guessed, petite, that you are a friend of Lily’s.”

“We met at a mutual place of employ,” Emma extemporized.

“You are an actress at The Cytherea?”

Lily was an actress? Had she been hired because of her profession to play the part of a maid in Strathaven’s household? Emma’s mind spun with new possibilities.

“I met Lily, er ... at a production,” she said with thumping excitement. “But I haven’t seen her of late. Have you?”

“That one comes and goes, non?” Madame shrugged. “I haven’t seen her in over a fortnight.”

Not since Strathaven had been poisoned. Coincidence? Surely not.

“Do you know where she might have gone?” Emma said.

“You ask many questions.” Madame Marieur’s eyes narrowed. “You will learn, chérie, that discretion is the best policy for women of the world. And you are a woman of the world, n’est-ce pas?”

“Of course,” Emma said hastily.

“Bien.” The dressmaker’s black skirts swished as she went to the counter, crooking a finger for Emma to follow. She opened a ledger with an embossed leather cover and dipped her pen in ink. “Now what will your pleasure be today?”

“I—I’d like a corset and petticoats. And stockings, too. Like Lily’s.” The more elaborate the ensemble, the more time she’d have to try to finagle information out of Madame Marieur.

“An ambitious little bird, aren’t you? You demand the very best my establishment has to offer. As luck would have it,”—a calculating gleam entered the other’s eyes—“I happen to have exactly what you seek today.”

The dressmaker jotted something down on the page ... what appeared to be a figure—Good Lord, five hundred pounds? For unmentionables?

For an instant, Emma was sorely tempted to negotiate the astronomical figure. But Madame snapped the book shut and headed toward the curtain at the back of the shop.

“Come, petite.” She beckoned with an impatient hand. “If you wish to complete this transaction, we haven’t time to spare.”

Emma took a breath. Strathaven had said that he would pay for all expenses incurred during the course of the investigation—surely his offer would apply in this situation. At the thought of how he might react to learning of the current intrigue, however, her insides quivered.

She stiffened her backbone and her resolve. You must act as you know best. You’re doing this for Strathaven’s own good. Look what you’ve discovered already.

Decision made, she went over to Madame, who parted the velvet and opened the heavy door behind it, waving Emma forward into a narrow corridor. The door closed behind them, deepening the shadows. The dancing light of the occasional taper and the deep, musky scent of roses disoriented Emma’s senses.

Madame set forth at a brisk pace, Emma stumbling to keep up.

The dressmaker said, “Le Boudoir Rouge should do nicely.”

Hinges squealed softly, and a door opened, a shaft of light widening into the darkness. With cautious footsteps, Emma followed the other inside. She blinked—for a changing room, this place was opulent, to say the least.

Red beeswax candles diffused a hazy glow throughout the chamber. Their flames swayed in the mirrors that adorned all four walls. Reflections magnified the decadence of the scarlet interior, the walls, divan, and carpeting blending into one lushly wicked hue.

Next to the divan was a dressmaker’s raised platform. Plush red carpeting covered the dais and the three steps leading up to it. The customary looking glass was absent; Emma supposed there was no need for it given the field of surrounding mirrors.

“Up you go, chérie,” Madame Marieur said.

Hesitantly, Emma took the steps up to the dais. As she stood there, images of herself flashed around the chamber, and her breath grew choppy with self-consciousness. The dressmaker rummaged in a cupboard before joining Emma on the stage.

“I have just your size. Eh bien, turn around, and we’ll get you undressed.”

Emma’s cheeks burned as the dressmaker proceeded to strip her with the efficiency of a hunter skinning game. Soon her gown, petticoat, and stays lay in a discarded pile. Left only in her chemise and stockings, Emma shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

“The chemise comes off too,” Madame said.

“Surely that’s not necessary—”

“Oui. Only the closest fit will do.”

With no choice, Emma let her arms fall to the sides as her last layer of protection was removed. Lungs pulling for air, she tried not to look at her naked reflection dancing over the walls. Relief came when Madame fitted a corset over her torso.

“Take a deep breath. Un, deux, trois ...”

Emma’s breath whooshed out as the dressmaker yanked the strings. Her eyes bulged, not from the lack of air but at the sight of herself in the most wicked garment she’d ever beheld. Constructed of fuchsia satin, the corset was trimmed with a column of little black bows down the front and black lace along the edges. It molded her figure into a sensuous shape, cinching her waist and pushing her breasts up so that they nearly spilled from the pleated cups.

“Fits like a second skin,” Madame said with satisfaction. “Now for the stockings.”

As the Frenchwoman held up the sinful black scraps, Emma focused on breathing in and out.

Do not lose your nerve now. Remain steadfast in your purpose.

She tried to think. “Madame, did anyone accompany Lily here on her visits?”

Marieur tied on one frilled garter—fuchsia to match the corset. “Of course not. That would defeat the purpose of the visit, non?”

“Defeat? In what way?”

The other’s eyes formed obsidian slits. “You are certain Lily sent you to me?”

Dash it. “Yes, of course. She spoke highly of your services,” Emma said quickly. “Said you had exactly what I’m looking for.”

Seeming mollified, Marieur finished with the other garter and rose. “Success takes the both of us. You, Miss Kendall, must put in the effort as well. Today is a test: I work only with those worth my time, comprehendez-vous?”

Beneath the pleasant tone was a distinct warning. What does Madame Marieur mean by test? Emma had the intuition that she was on the cusp of an important discovery. At the same time, goose pimples spread over her bared skin.

Warily, she said, “Yes, I understand.”

The other pushed the remaining hosiery into her hands. “Finish with these. I’ll return shortly.” In a swish of black skirts, she disappeared from the room.

Alone, Emma sat on the edge of the dais. She slipped on the black silk stockings, securing them to the garters. As she sat, her naked bottom against the plush carpeted platform, outfitted in the most debauched ensemble she could possibly imagine, trepidation rolled in with the swiftness of fog from the Thames.

What am I doing? I ought to have gone to Ambrose or Alaric instead of coming here alone ...

She’d gotten carried away by the excitement of possible success, of her impending discoveries. Her gaze swung to the heap of her clothing. There was still time to throw her gown back on. Make a quick escape before the dressmaker returned.

Voices came from outside the chamber. Madame Marieur... but she wasn’t alone. A wave of panic washed over Emma as she heard low, deep tones that were unmistakably masculine—and they were growing louder, headed toward her room.

Dear God. Have to run, hide. But where?

The door was opening. With a squeak, Emma crossed her legs, slapping her hands over her exposed womanhood. A man strode in. Wintry green eyes bored into her, and relief welled ... followed swiftly by alarm.

“Strathaven,” she whispered.