West stomped down the stairs, Mary’s hand gripped tightly in his, growing more frustrated with every footfall.

He was frustrated with Mary, for making him forget himself at critical moments. Frustrated with Scarlet, for costing them precious seconds in the hallway. Frustrated with the woman Vivian—if that was even her real name—for leaving in such a hurry, taking the trail along with her. And most of all, frustrated with himself, for being so foolish as to involve Miss Mary Channing in this business in the first place.

If they’d not dallied in the hallway, would the outcome have been different? It was time to face the facts. Mary was like a breath of fresh air in his sordid life, and he’d wanted to nurture the spark he’d seen growing in her eyes. Even the feeling of her gloved hand gripping his felt oddly right. He wasn’t a man given to flights of fancy or archaic courtship rituals.

But here he was, holding this woman’s hand. She was an undeniable distraction.

And he couldn’t afford distractions now, not with so much at stake.

Before they could reach the front door, Scarlet stepped out of the first floor receiving room. “Westmore!” She positioned herself in the hallway, blocking their egress. “Finished so soon? That isn’t like you at all.”

“Vivian wasn’t there,” he said grimly. “And all her things are gone. It appears as though she has left for good. Do you know where she might have gone?”

Scarlet stepped closer. “No, as you know, the girls here are free to come and go, no questions asked. Perhaps she found a proper protector.” Her lips shifted from a practiced smile to more of a pout. “You know, I had thought you might make me a similar offer.”

“Well then, I am sorry to have disappointed you.” Though, to his recollection he’d made Scarlet no promises on that front. Theirs had been little more than a two week fling and a single, forgettable trip to the opera. “If you’ll excuse us now?”

She didn’t move.

“Was there something you wanted?” he asked warily.

The prostitute stood up on her toes, her peaked nipples brushing against him beneath her red silk robe. “You know there is.”

He gritted his teeth. “Now is not a good time.”

He felt Scarlet’s lips brush his cheek. “Later, then.” Her breath rustled against his ear. “Tonight, after you’ve discarded your baggage.”

West hesitated. Though Scarlet once held his attention quite effectively, today her charms seemed too . . . obvious. Was it because he had come to prefer a softer sort of voice, and a pair of sparkling brown eyes? Or was it because he was losing his mind?

He gave Scarlet a stiff nod, then stepped around her and pulled Mary toward the safety of the door. He had no intention of taking Scarlet up on her offer, but he knew from long experience she was not easily deflected. A nod would be the quickest way to get Mary to the door.

As he pulled Mary onto the street and raised his hand to summon a hack, he fought back a snarl of frustration. Damn it, they’d been so close.

But close was not enough to save the queen.

Their only real lead—St. Paul’s Cathedral—had yielded no clue as to the identity of their duke. The prostitute, Vivian, had flown the coop, and there were at least a dozen young, arrogant dukes gadding about London, any one of whom could be the man identified as “Your Grace” from the library. Then there was the new list demanding his consideration. It would take weeks to investigate any one of the groups Mary had written down on that piece of paper.

Perhaps he should go back and try the detectives at Scotland Yard again. With a known target in the queen, perhaps they might take him more seriously this time. God knew, Her Majesty was a frequent enough target of assassination plots that someone there ought to take him seriously. But he knew it was impossible. Who in their right mind would ever believe he’d come to a brothel intent only on tracking down a traitor?

Or believe he’d brought with him the woman he’d so famously groped in St. Bartholomew’s library, with no other purpose in mind but to kindle the excitement he’d seen sparkling in her eyes?

Mary sat quietly all the way back to Grosvenor Square.

She’d heard what the beautiful prostitute had whispered in West’s ear. Would he really go back to Madame Xavier’s? She stole a sideways glance at him as the hackney coach pulled onto the square, the steady clop of shod hooves slowing as they drew in front of her sister’s town house. Of course he would.

He was “that damned Westmore”, the man, the legend.

And he couldn’t get her home fast enough.

He bustled her up the steps, his hand firm against her elbow. But she pulled away from his touch as the front door loomed near.

“In you go then,” he said, adopting a wide stance.

Something akin to envy flashed through her as she thought of why he was in such a hurry to be done with her. “Why don’t you come in?” she asked irritably. “Have a cup of tea?” She exhaled. “We could plan our next steps.”

He stared down at her, the set of his jaw hiding the direction of his thoughts. Did he think her silly? Tea, unfortunately, was all she could offer him. It was far less than Scarlet had whispered loudly in his ear, but Mary was loath to let him go without offering him something.

He reached out a hand and pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth, rubbing gently, then turned it around to show her a smear of red lip paint. “Mouse,” he told her, and her shoulders stiffened to hear the insult, though in truth, at times it seemed he said it like an endearment. “I don’t know how I can say this more plainly. There are no next steps.”

“But—”

“I think I’ve caused enough trouble with you today, and that was just going to church. Who knows what sort of disaster we would cause over tea?” He took a step away. “No, I think it is better if we plan to have you stay safely here at No. 29 Grosvenor Square from now on.” He hesitated. “Be well, Miss Channing.” A smirk claimed his handsome face. “And do try not to kiss any more prostitutes.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and tucked himself down the steps, heading down the street. Mary stood a moment, fuming. The man was even whistling, the merry tune trailing behind him. He seemed to not have a care in the world. And why would he? He’d taken her home, and now he was free to pursue other pleasures.

Drat the man and his . . . his appetites.

She turned back to her own door and put her irritation into a sharp rap on the door, then forced a smile at the housekeeper who opened it. “Oh, there you are, Mrs. Greaves,” she exclaimed with false brightness. “I declare, I sat on that dusty pew for ages, waiting for you. I wonder, did you sit on the wrong one?”

Mrs. Greaves sagged against the door frame, one hand fluttering about her throat. “Oh my goodness, the wrong pew, did you say?” She shook her head. “I suppose I must have done.”

“Don’t worry,” Mary said, patting the woman on the shoulder. “I will explain everything to my sister. It was my fault, not yours.”

“Oh, miss, your sister . . . she’s not well. I was out of my head with worry, losing you that way. Lady Ashington was nearly frantic when I told her I’d misplaced you, and then her pains started coming.” Her hand lowered, fluttering about her heart. “The doctor’s upstairs with her now.”

Fear and worry collided in Mary’s chest, making it hard to breathe. Oh, no. “Is she all right?” she gasped, looking up to see a grim-faced Dr. Merial coming down the stairs. She hadn’t thought about the consequences of her actions today, just charged into everything, really. But she’d never be able to forgive herself if by her lack of foresight and planning she’d done something to harm her sister or the baby.

Dr. Merial drew to a halt in front of her. “As well as can be expected. False labor, I should say. Brought on by the excitement of the morning.” He frowned, shaking his head. “I hope I don’t need to remind you she is supposed to be resting quietly.”

Mary placed a relieved hand over her heart.

Eleanor was all right . . . for now.

How could she have made such a mistake, forgotten her sister’s delicate state, even for a moment? “I . . . that is, it was simply a small mix-up with the pews,” she lied, “after I stepped out for a breath of fresh air. The Thames, you know . . . there was a terrible smell in the church.” A small lie, a falsehood that hurt no one. And the part about the Thames was indisputable.

But how could she tell the entire truth, when it promised to hurt someone she loved?

“Can I see her now?” she asked, feeling awful about causing her sister distress.

Dr. Merial nodded. “I am sure she will be glad to know you are home.”

Mary lifted her skirts and began to hurry up the stairs.

“Oh, and Miss Channing?” he called up after her.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”

Dr. Merial’s mouth twitched, as though he was trying to hide a smile. He tapped a finger to his lips. “Do stop by your washstand and mirror before popping in to see your sister. You might want to remove that lip paint first.”

West headed straight for the only person he could think of who might yield answers.

Though it was a Sunday afternoon—and early at that—West found Grant slouched over their usual table in the back of White’s, staring into an empty glass.

Likely not the first of the day.

For the first time in memory, West wondered if perhaps they both spent too much time here. White’s was the most exclusive gentleman’s club in London, a cheerful male domain without a flounce or ribbon or throw pillow in sight. In the corners of these hallowed walls, wagers were placed on the oddest of whims, and White’s infamous betting book was considered close to sacred among their set. When the drinks were flowing freely, he and Grant would laugh and smoke and avoid any semblance of a serious conversation—usually because serious conversations tended to send Grant into a foul mood.

But today the sound of billiard balls knocking about on a Sunday afternoon and the thought of sliding into a table with a glass of something in his hand seemed . . . unnatural. Particularly after a morning spent chasing criminals in the company of the effervescent Miss Mary Channing.

West slid into the seat opposite his friend. “Started early today, I see.”

Grant’s eyes lifted to assess him for a long, drawn out moment. West started to fidget in his seat. He was unused to such scrutiny from Grant. They’d been friends since Harrow, and knew each other inside and out. Undue scrutiny was not really a part of their friendship . . . unless one counted scrutiny of a good drop of whisky.

Preferably of the fine, smuggled variety, the sort that could burn holes through wooden tables and lurked in Grant’s always ready flask.

Grant opened his mouth, finally breaking the stretched-out silence. “It’s never too early, as you well know. Although, speaking of starting early . . .” He leaned back almost casually in his chair. “I stopped by Cardwell House today, thinking to collect your absent arse and see if we could get up to some fun, but your butler told me you’d gone to church.” He snorted. “Church? You couldn’t get me to church on a Sunday with a bloody team of horses. Was it devotion or curiosity that dragged you there this morning?”

West shifted uneasily in his seat. Grant was speaking too loudly, slurring his words, drawing attention from the other patrons. “It is . . . complicated.”

“Ah. A woman, then. I should have guessed. To whom do we owe this sudden fit of pious devotion?” Grant’s eyes narrowed. “The infamous Miss Channing, perhaps?”

West was startled. “How did you know about her?”

“For God’s sake, the broadsheets have all gleefully chronicled your misadventures, and I haven’t seen or heard a word from you since the night you dangled your prick in literary waters.”

“Ah. That.” West grimaced. “I’ve been . . . uh . . . ‘busy.’”

“Well now, there’s a good deal of interpretation that can be afforded a word like ‘busy.’” Grant’s voice sounded faintly accusing. “Did you at least shag her for all your trouble? Please tell me you didn’t toss it all away for a kiss and a peek at her bubbies.”

West fought back a snarl. “Have a care. Miss Channing is a proper lady.”

“A proper lady?” Grant slumped in his chair. “It’s worse than I thought, if you won’t hear a word against her. So, have you succumbed to the demands for your head? Slapped a ring on her finger?” He lifted a fist above his head in a parody of a hanging. “Tied the old marital noose about your neck?”

West scowled at his friend. “No.”

Though, he’d certainly tried.

“Well, there’s a good bit of news.” Grant straightened, looking suddenly more hopeful. “You didn’t offer for the woman after all that? You’ve got bollocks, West, I’ll hand you that. Ruined women are fearsome creatures, out for blood and whatever else you are hiding.” He shuddered. “Of course, I hear she’s a bit long in the tooth.” He tapped a finger against his head. “Possibly addle-brained, hiding away in Yorkshire so long. Didn’t even have a Season. You should count yourself lucky to have made your escape.”

West clenched his fists. In his experience, Miss Channing was the opposite of addle-brained. It felt as if he could scarcely keep up with her endless lists and ideas. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he said slowly. “I offered for her. But she wouldn’t have me.”

Grant burst out laughing. “Are you sure she isn’t addle-brained? Rocked in the head? You’ve got half the women in London with their skirts in a twist, eager for a chance with you. If she doesn’t want you, I say she’s got coddled eggs for brains.” He leaned forward. “Though . . . tell me. The rags don’t always get it right, but the cartoonist drew her like this.” He cupped two hands about his chest, roughly the size of oranges. “Which is all well and good, but did you happen to get a peek at her feet?”

West narrowly resisted the urge to smash a fist in his friend’s face. Normally, Grant’s raucous teasing made him laugh, but he didn’t feel like laughing at the moment. He didn’t like hearing Grant denigrate the woman he’d spent the morning with.

Not one bit.

“I didn’t come here to talk about Miss Channing’s feet.” West lowered his voice, a warning should Grant only care to pull his head out of his arse long enough to take stock.

“Good.” Grant lifted his empty glass to signal the wait staff to bring him another. “Because I was getting worried you’d succumbed to madness. But all’s well that ends well. You’ve come to the right place to forget your troubles. Now, are you drinking whisky or brandy today?”

“Neither.” West waved the aproned staff member away from his side of the table, then leaned forward. “I came to ask you something.”

“As long as it isn’t a request to stand up with you at your wedding, you’ve my undivided attention.”

“Have you seen Vivian, the prostitute from Madame Xavier’s, of late?”

“Why do you ask?” Grant looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Look, this isn’t anything to do with that business with Scarlet and the opera, is it?”

“What?” West blinked, confused. What on earth was Grant blabbering on about?

Grant frowned. “I understand you might be miffed, but I would prefer to not share Vivian as penance.”

West nearly choked on his tongue. Good God. Surely Grant didn’t think he wanted Vivian for himself? “You’ve got it all wrong. I am not interested in her that way.” West looked from left to right, then turned himself over to it. “That night at St. Bartholomew’s, I stumbled into a bit of trouble at the literary salon. Vivian was there.”

“Vivian?” Grant’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “At a literary salon? What joke are you playing now? To my knowledge, she doesn’t even know how to read.”

West leaned in. It felt good to at last be relating this tale to someone who was bound by friendship to believe him. He probably should have told Grant about it days ago, but he’d not found time to come to White’s, what with his madcap visits to Bedlam and church. Besides, finding a moment when they were both sober enough to have a logical discussion was a challenge he hadn’t felt up to. Even now, the empty glass in Grant’s hand told him his timing might be off, but there was no help for it.

“Miss Channing and I overheard someone plotting to assassinate the queen.” West lowered his voice, hoping Grant was sober enough to understand what he was saying. “And your prostitute, Vivian, is tied up in it.”

There was a moment of perforating silence. “Vivian?” Grant finally asked. “She of the lovely feet?”

“The very same.”

“And Vivian is . . . the only one involved in this dastardly plot?”

“No.” West frowned, remembering the other voices, both familiar and unfamiliar. “There is a duke as well. And two other people, but I don’t know who any of them are yet.”

For a moment Grant looked perplexed. Even pensive. But then he burst out laughing. “Oh, I see.” He didn’t just laugh, he whooped out loud, leaning so far back in his chair West was afraid he was going to tip it over. “Oh, but this is fekking ingenious!”

As his friend dissolved into convulsive laughter, irritation twitched through West. Judging by the redness of Grant’s face, this wasn’t going to go the way he had hoped.

Grant leaned forward suddenly, the front legs of his chair crashing down with a thump. “All right,” he wheezed, “what’s my role this time? Am I to be the duke? Do you want me to stand as lookout? Pretend to pull the trigger? Mayhap I could dress as a chamber maid and sneak into the queen’s bedroom this time. Or do you mean for that role to belong to Vivian?”

West gritted his teeth. “I am not joking, Grant.”

“Of course you are. You are always joking, and it’s one of the things we all enjoy most about you.” Grant tapped the side of his nose. “When do we sally forth? Mum’s the word until then, just let me know when you are ready to go through with it. Vivian seems like a good sport. I suspect we would have to pay her, though.”

“Grant.” West placed both palms down on the table and leaned forward, enunciating clearly so there could be no mistake. “This is not a joke. Vivian is involved in a plot to kill the queen. She’s disappeared from Madame Xavier’s and taken all her things with her. Do you know where she might have gone?”

“Why would I know where she’s gone? I hardly know her. She was just a lark. A lovely lark, to be sure.”

“Well, as we speak, your ‘lovely lark’ is delivering funds to someone, funds that will be used to kill the queen,” West told him. “And there isn’t going to be anything pleasurable about it if I fail to stop it.”

Grant sobered. Regarded him a long, unreadable moment. “Right then,” he murmured. He staggered to his feet and turned, heading toward the back of the room.

“Where are you going?” West called out in exasperation. He shouldn’t have told Grant—he could see that now. But even if it was fueled by drink, his friend’s refusal to believe him stung. Grant, above everyone else, was supposed to be the one who understood him.

They’d been through brothels and benders together. Survived more bottles than he could remember, and one unfortunate battle he still struggled to forget.

Why couldn’t Grant understand this? He wasn’t joking.

Not even close.

“I need to find the betting book!” Grant’s laughter howled behind him. “Because I’m laying a wager you’re losing your mind.”