All in all, Emma thought that Alaric was handling his first meeting with her family rather well. After the inauspicious start with Ambrose, he and she were greeted by her sisters as soon as they stepped foot inside the house. Emma hastily made the introductions.

After her curtsy, Violet studied him with frank curiosity. “So you’re a duke? I’ve never met one before.”

“Manners, Vi,” Thea said in an undertone.

But Alaric only looked ... amused. “I must confess my own curiosity—having never met so many Kents before. Beauty and grace must be family traits.”

The girls looked at each other ... and giggled as haplessly as debutantes. Emma, who’d never witnessed his gallantry in action, watched in bemusement as he continued to work his charm.

“Thank you for the compliment, Your Grace,” Rosie said, dimpling.

“It is only the truth.” He smiled at the vivacious girl, then he turned to Polly, who’d been standing bashfully off to the side. Over the latter’s hand, he courteously bowed. “I don’t envy Kent. He’ll have to chase off suitors when you young ladies have your come outs,” he said.

Polly turned pink with pleasure, and Emma’s chest warmed at Alaric’s unexpected sensitivity, at the sight of him teasing and at ease with her sisters.

Ambrose’s stern tones broke up the banter. “Go attend to your lessons, girls. His Grace and I have business to attend to.”

After the girls scampered off, Ambrose led the way to the drawing room. Tension set in as they all took up their positions: Emma and Alaric on the settee and Marianne on the chaise longue, Ambrose pacing behind her like a caged tiger. He growled questions one after the other.

Alaric, with a booted foot resting upon one knee, was the picture of ducal assurance as he responded. He seemed to have an answer for everything, maneuvering through her brother’s queries like a seasoned hackney driver through London’s streets. He glossed over certain details—their lovemaking at Madame Marieur’s, for instance—without telling any lies.

Finally, Ambrose turned to her. “What were you thinking, Emma, interviewing His Grace’s staff?” he said in bewildered tones. “Going off on your own to this disreputable place?”

“I thought I could help,” she said in a small voice. “The maids talked to me. And I discovered Lily’s true identity—”

“At what risk? Anything could have happened. You could have been hurt, accosted, or worse.”

“I assure you, Kent, she was perfectly safe,” Alaric said. “I put a guard on her.”

Shock jolted Emma. She’d assumed that his staff at the cottage had told him about Marieur’s. Instead, he’d had her followed?

Looking as stunned as she felt, Ambrose said, “You did what?”

“The better question is why didn’t you? She’s your sister. You ought to know how determined she is when she sets her mind upon a thing,” Alaric said calmly.

His high-handedness was astounding. And he didn’t look the least bit apologetic.

She glared at him. “You can’t have someone following me—”

“Actually, I can and I did. I told you, pet: I protect what is important to me.”

The silver flame in his jade eyes hitched her breath. How could she have ever thought him cold? Beneath that icy authority raged volcanic heat—and it disturbed her to realize that she liked this side of him. Liked that she could stir his emotions ... the way he did hers.

“About that, Your Grace.” Marianne gave a flick to her jonquil skirts, which were as smooth as her expression. “You understand why we must ask your intentions toward Emma.”

“Why was my sister sitting on your bloody lap in the carriage?” Ambrose thundered.

Heat boiled up in Emma’s cheeks. “Ambrose, it wasn’t—”

“Let me answer, pet. ’Tis a fair question, and I have naught to hide.” Alaric regarded her family with cool equanimity. “My intentions toward Emma are honorable.”

She didn’t mistake the claim in his deliberate and intimate use of her name.

“Intentions? Toward my sister? Now see here—”

“Darling.” Marianne reached out and touched Ambrose’s sleeve. A silent communication passed between them. Amber eyes blazing, he clenched his jaw and let his wife speak.

“You wish to marry Emma, Your Grace?” Marianne said.

“Yes. As soon as possible.” His eyes upon Emma’s face, he murmured, “As soon as I can convince the lady in question to have me, that is.”

Way to throw me beneath the carriage. Emma gave him an annoyed look.

A smile flickered on his lips.

“Emma?” her brother said in disbelief. “Are you truly considering this?”

She took a breath. “His Grace and I have agreed to a courtship period. To help us decide if we are truly suited.”

“You see?” Alaric’s wide shoulders lifted. “’Tis Emma who is dallying with me and not the other way around.”

“No one is dallying with anyone! Emma, I cannot condone this.” Ambrose gripped the back of the chaise, his face stark with disapproval.

For the first time, Emma felt a spark of anger. Why was her brother being so unreasonable? She was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions.

“You’re the one who said I should find a husband,” she said.

“I meant a suitable one. He ... his past,”—her brother waved a hand at Alaric in mute frustration—“he’s not good enough for you.”

The unfairness of the statement riled her. “He is a good man!”

“A duke being condescended upon by a mere mister—that has to be a first.” Alaric arched a dark eyebrow. “Would you prefer it, Kent, if I were a costermonger?”

“’Tis your past and your character I question, not your title. Can’t you see how different you and Emma are? She is an innocent girl, devoted to her family. You are an accounted rake, and from what I’ve seen between you and McLeod, you haven’t the first notion of what it means to be a family.”

Emma cringed.

The muscle ticked in Alaric’s jaw. “You know nothing about my family.”

“And you know nothing about mine,” Ambrose said. “When it comes to marriage, Kents don’t care about money or rank.”

“Yes, I can see how you’ve sacrificed the finer things in life on the altar of matrimony.” Alaric’s gaze circled sardonically around the well-appointed drawing room.

Her brother’s cheekbones turned a dull red.

Intervening quickly, Emma said, “Strathaven and I aren’t making any hasty decisions. We’re taking the time to get to know one another. Nothing is written in stone.”

“Emma knows her own mind,” Marianne said quietly to Ambrose. “She always has.”

Emma felt a rush of love toward her sister-in-law.

“Someone is out to kill you, Strathaven,” her brother growled. “Do you wish to endanger my sister as well?”

“Emma’s safety is my primary concern. Which is why we will keep our courtship secret until the murderer is caught,” Alaric said evenly. “If you truly wish to guarantee Emma’s safety, you might consider actually finding the bloody killer.”

“We have made progress.” Ambrose’s tone was equally hard.

“I’m all ears.”

Emma saw the indecision on her brother’s face. Clearly, he wanted to go a few more rounds with Alaric. His gaze landed on her, and his mouth tightened. “We’ll remove to my study—”

“Emma will hear this,” Alaric said. “She has the right to know about the case; it affects my future and therefore hers. Besides, it was through her efforts that we now have a new lead on the maid.”

Despite Alaric’s overconfident assumption that their futures were indeed entwined, Emma’s chest expanded with giddiness. He’d listened to her in the carriage. He was respecting her wishes—had just publicly acknowledged her abilities as an investigator.

Catching her eyes, he murmured, “See, pet? I am capable of compromise.”

“Emma will find out anyway. As will I,” Marianne said. “You might as well discuss the case here, darling.”

Ambrose said tersely, “We’re not done talking about you and my sister, Strathaven.”

Alaric’s gaze was cool, level. Clearly, he was done.

Her brother raked a hand through his hair and visibly collected himself. When he spoke, it was with brisk professionalism.

“I’ll begin with the poisoning,” he said. “I discussed your symptoms with a physician experienced in such matters. He suspects that we are dealing with a substance of strong toxicity, one with dose dependent qualities—most likely a wild plant of some kind. He once saw a family, all of whom had mistakenly ingested poisonous mushrooms. The father, who’d eaten the most of the contaminated stew, died, as did one of the sons, who’d had a second helping. Having eaten less, the mother and sisters survived.”

“This is why Clara died, and I did not.”

Despite Alaric’s detached tone, Emma knew him well enough now to perceive his self-recrimination. She touched his arm; beneath her fingers, his hard bicep quivered.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “You didn’t know the whiskey was poisoned.”

His expression remained harsh, but his chin dipped in a slight nod.

“We don’t know that drinking less of the whiskey would have saved Lady Osgood,” Ambrose said. “Depending on the individual, the lethal dose can vary to some degree. In the case of the family, a second son, who ate just as much as his brother who died, ended up surviving. My physician friend hypothesized that this was because this boy had survived eating poisonous mushrooms once before and had developed a degree of resistance to the toxins.”

Grooves deepened around Alaric’s mouth. “I had a digestive illness in my youth, which I later overcame. Perhaps that built up my resistance.”

“Perhaps. At any rate, we are dealing with a murderer with some knowledge of poison. He knew enough to choose a weapon with no detectable taste or odor. His mistake was not dosing the whiskey with enough poison to kill you with one drink ... which brings us to the second attempt on your life.”

Alaric straightened. “You have news about the shooting?”

“McLeod has made headway with the list of gunsmiths. He’s narrowed it down to the last handful, says he should have the shop identified by the morrow.”

“I’m going there with you,” Alaric said grimly.

“I want to come, too,” Emma said.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

“No,” her brother and Alaric said as one.

At least the two agree on something. Well, it wasn’t as if she didn’t expect resistance. Summoning her breath, she prepared to argue, but Alaric headed her off.

“I have kept my end of the bargain. Now you will keep yours. My rules, Emma,” he reminded her.

“But I want to help investigate—”

“And so you shall,” he said. “I have an assignment. An important one.”

“An assignment for me?” She could hardly wait. “Do you want me to go to The Cytherea, track down Lily White—”

“No. Your task is more important than that.”

More important? “Yes?” she said eagerly.

“Your job is to infiltrate the ton.”

“What?” She frowned. “Why would I do that?”

“Remember what you said about poison being a lady’s weapon?”

Brows drawn, she gave a slow nod. “But that was just conjecture. We don’t have any specific evidence to support—”

“That is where you come in. I want you to circulate amongst my peers. Keep your eyes and ears open for any suspicious activity, particularly where ladies are involved.”

“But I don’t know the first thing about high society,” she protested.

“I need your help, Emma.”

With those five words, he had her. How could she deny his request—deny him anything—when he looked at her with such mesmerizing warmth in his eyes?

Swallowing, she said, “What sort of suspicious activity would I be monitoring?”

“Gossip, for one thing. Amongst the ton, it is a powerful weapon. It often holds fragments of the truth and may yield clues to the killer’s identity.” He paused, leveled a challenging look at Ambrose. “If you don’t believe me, ask your brother.”

Ambrose’s brows knotted. After a minute, he said curtly, “It is true that gossip can be a source of important information.”

“See?” Alaric’s broad shoulders lifted. “I would do this myself, but people don’t dare to talk about me to my face. That is why I need you: an investigator with excellent observation skills, someone I can rely upon.”

Touched by his trust, she searched his face. “This isn’t some ploy to distract me from the real danger, is it? You really think I could learn something important just by listening?”

“Emma, you have the ability to do what your brother and his partners cannot: you can blend in with the ladies, conduct reconnaissance in drawing rooms and ballrooms undetected. And let me be clear: all you’re to do is listen. You’ll take no risks, and you’ll report anything you hear directly to me and your brother. Is that understood?” His gaze locked with hers until she gave a nod. “If I am asking too much of you, pet—”

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to see you safe.” She wouldn’t have him believing otherwise, not when he was entrusting her with so vital a mission. “I won’t let you down.”

“Thank you.” His slow smile dazzled her senses. “I’ll make all the arrangements.”

“Wait. What arrangements?”

“You can’t go sleuthing about without the proper equipment. In order to operate amongst the ton, you’ll need a few supplies. I will, of course, bear the expense for them.”

Before she could ask what supplies he was referring to, he said to Marianne, “You would not mind chaperoning Emma, Mrs. Kent?”

“Not at all.” Marianne’s lips gave an odd twitch. “Are there any particular, er, investigative opportunities you’d like us to pursue, Your Grace?”

“Start with the Blackwood Ball,” Alaric said. “Their parties are guaranteed crushes.”

“And quite exclusive,” Marianne murmured.

“Lord Blackwood is a friend of mine and can be trusted to be discreet. I’ll secure your invitations.”

Emma’s stomach lurched at the prospect of attending so elevated an affair, but she reminded herself that she’d do anything to help protect Alaric’s life—including navigating the ton’s treacherous waters.

Alaric addressed her brother. “Kent, I’ll expect to be notified when Will identifies the gunsmith.”

His expression carved in stone, Ambrose jerked his chin in reply.

Alaric rose, bowing first to Marianne and then taking Emma’s hand. When his lips skimmed over her knuckles, longing shivered over her.

“You won’t regret our bargain, sweeting.” His pale green irises smoldered with silver smoke as he murmured, “Once this is over, I will come to you a free man and make no mistake: we will settle things between us.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” She wrinkled her nose.

His lips took on a faint, wicked curve. “Either way, pet, it means you’re going to be mine.”