Other men might fear finding their wives in compromising situations.

Alaric anticipated it—a good thing, given who he was married to.

Stalking through the winding hedges, he arrived at the edge of the moonlit garden, and his blood heated as he spotted the familiar figure of his duchess. She was in the gazebo; she had her back turned to him—and she was not alone.

Soundlessly, he approached. Cleared his throat.

Violet, who was standing on the gazebo railing, spun around with the ease of an acrobat. A telescope dangled from one of her hands. “Gadzooks, you startled me!”

“Your Grace.” This came from Thea, who curtsied and hastily jammed a pair of opera glasses into her reticule. “We weren’t, um, expecting you.”

“Darling, I didn’t think you were coming tonight.” Smiling, Emma stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his jaw. “I thought you and Tremont planned to have a late night of cards.”

Recently, Alaric had been concerned about his friend, who didn’t quite seem himself. Emma had encouraged him to spend the night with Tremont at the club. Halfway through the evening, however, instinct had told him to seek his wife out. Or maybe he just missed her.

Either way, he should have known that she was up to something.

“If I may be so bold,” he said, “what is going on here?”

His cool, polite tones had their intended effect. Violet hopped down from the railing, landing with the grace of a cat on her slippered feet. Grabbing Thea by the arm, she pulled the other out of the gazebo, saying cheerfully, “Marianne will be looking for us, so we’ll leave the explaining to Emma. Good evening, Your Grace!”

He bowed to his wife’s departing sisters. Then he turned to face his errant duchess.

He quirked a brow. “Well?”

“Now, Alaric, it’s not as bad as it looks,” she began.

“Does it look bad?” he inquired. “To find one’s wife in a dark garden—spying and taking notes?” He dropped his gaze to the notebook jutting out of her pearl-encrusted evening bag.

“I was just doing a little observation,” she said brightly. “You see, at a soiree earlier this week, I came upon a lady weeping in the retiring room. She thought her husband might be having an affair with Lady De Burgh. Since I happened to have an invitation to the party next door to the De Burghs, I promised her I’d take a look.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”

She peered up at him through her lashes. “I didn’t know if anything would come of it. I didn’t want to concern you over naught. If I saw anything tonight, however,” she said virtuously, “I was definitely going to tell you.”

“And did you, my love?” he said calmly. “See anything, I mean?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No. Someone did enter the bedchamber, but Lady De Burgh took the precaution of drawing the curtains before we could ascertain his identity.”

“She and Lord Galveston didn’t want an audience, no doubt.”

“Galveston?” Emma exclaimed. “How do you know it was him?”

“Because he and I do business together. When we meet at the club and he gets into his cups, his tongue loosens. He’s been having an affaire with Lady De Burgh for several weeks.”

Emma’s face fell. “Oh dear. I shall hate breaking the news to my clien—I mean, Lady Galveston.”

“Indeed.” He curled a finger under his wife’s chin, searching her clear eyes. “Now tell me why you didn’t trust me enough to inform me of your new case.”

That was his true concern. He’d made it clear that, as long as Emma didn’t compromise her safety in any way and kept him apprised of her activities, he supported her investigative pursuits. Not too long ago, in fact, he’d assisted her and Kent with a case. His financial knowledge had helped them to track down their client’s dowry, which had been ferreted into secret funds by a villainous uncle.

“I do trust you,” Emma said instantly. “You’re the best of husbands.”

“I am, of course, relieved to hear it.”

Reaching up, she smoothed his lapels, fiddled with his cravat pin. “I planned to tell you about my newest case after I told you … my other news.”

He stilled.

“You’ve noticed that there hasn’t been any, um, interruption to our marital activities as of late?”

“Emma.” Heart thudding, he grabbed her hands. “Are you … are we …?”

Eyes sparkling, she nodded.

“My dearest love,” he breathed, “what the devil are you doing spying in a garden when you’re increasing—with my heir, no less?”

“We don’t know that it’s going to be a boy; it could very well be a girl. And any daughter of ours wouldn’t mind a little adventure … Alaric,” she said breathlessly, “what are you doing?”

“I’m getting you out of here.”

“I noticed. But I can walk.”

“Not as fast as I can.” He strode through the hedges with his duchess in his arms. “You shouldn’t be out in the night air. You should be resting, eating, whatever it is ladies in your condition do—”

“You’re not going to be like this the entire seven months, are you?”

He shot her a look.

She sighed. “I’m a Kent, darling. We’re robust, remember?”

“As to that, there’s to be no more sleuthing until our son is born.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I?”

Instead of arguing, she smiled. “You are happy about this, aren’t you?”

“Darling, I’m overjoyed.” Halting, he gazed into her eyes and saw his future so clearly and beautifully reflected. “Everything I’ve ever wanted, you’ve given me. And now we’re going to have a bairn as well.”

“I love you so much,” she said.

Words he’d never tire of hearing or saying. Because she’d taught him they were true.

“I love you, Emma.” He kissed her with all that was in his heart.

When he raised his head, she whispered, “Let’s go home.”

“I am home. With you, my love,” he said tenderly, “I finally am.”