The line of household servants snaking down the hallway outside Lord Ashington’s study at ten o’clock on that Monday morning was long. Restless. Nervous.

And well they ought to be.

Because when West found the person who placed the note in Mary’s journal, there was going to be hell to pay.

He’d left his new wife sitting in the drawing room at Cardwell House, reading some Dickens novel out loud to her sister. He might have liked to have plopped down into a chair, listened to his new wife’s voice for a few minutes. Tossed aside the dull book they were reading and livened things up with The Lustful Turk. Instead, he’d taken advantage of her devotion to her sister and slipped away without her knowing to walk three doors down.

Though he truly had no right to be here in Ashington’s study, conducting interviews with the man’s staff, the housekeeper, Mrs. Greaves had not objected. Though West had not divulged the reasons for his demands, the woman had seemed nearly relieved to see him. Was it any wonder Mary had been able to slip away from the poor woman so easily? The household staff ran slipshod circles around the aging housekeeper. He decided he ought to introduce Mrs. Greaves to his butler. If anyone could force a bit of starch into a person, it was Wilson.

“Next!” he called out, waving away the gardener who’d just stood in front of him, hat in hand, to confess to a dalliance with a somewhat promiscuous scullery maid. Which was all well and good for the gardener, but as the man appeared to have no idea who Mary was, much less where her room abovestairs might have been, West dismissed him and moved on to the next worried soul. He interviewed upstairs maids. Downstairs maids. A cook, a butler, and a handful of kitchen maids. There were two unimpressive footmen, a gardener’s apprentice, and a groomsman who saw to the horses in the mews. Most of the staff appeared to think he was interviewing them about a piece of silver that had disappeared from a locked cabinet last week.

One of them even produced said piece of missing silver.

None confessed to an association with terrorists, or appeared capable of anything more sinister than picking a lock on the silver cabinet or lusting after someone they oughtn’t.

Two hours into the interrogations, Mrs. Greaves popped her head through the door. “That is the last of them, Mr. Westmore. I trust your inquiry went well?”

West held up the previously missing piece of silver, which Mrs. Greaves accepted with a relieved “thank you”. But he himself frowned. How could that be everyone? There was no valet, though it made sense the man was traveling with Lord Ashington. But in reviewing the frightened faces, he could not recall speaking with anyone who professed to be a ladies’ maid.

And as there were two ladies who had been residing in the house . . .

“What about Lady Ashington’s personal maid?” he asked gruffly.

“O’Brien?” Mrs. Greaves looked startled. “Did no one tell you? She followed Lady Ashington to Cardwell House.”

West lurched to his feet, panic slamming through him. The missing maid was at Cardwell House? And named O’Brien?

It was a distinctly Irish name, and thoughts of Fenian rebels urged him onward. His feet flew out of Ashington’s study and through the front door. Bloody, bloody hell. How could he have been so stupid? To be sure, he’d left a well-armed footman discreetly guarding the drawing room door, but even so, he raced down the street and burst through the doors of Cardwell House without even a greeting for poor Wilson. He skidded past the drawing room to see that his new wife and her sister were still calmly—and safely—reading aloud, then took the stairs two at a time.

He didn’t even bother to knock, just threw open the door of Lady Ashington’s room.

A pretty woman in a plain gown looked up, startled. “Mr. Westmore!” she exclaimed indignantly, lowering her needlework to her lap. “You may not be in Lady Ashington’s room.”

“O’Brien, I presume?” At her uncertain nod, he stalked into the room. “Surely you don’t think I am here to proposition Lady Ashington,” he scoffed, trying to rein in his temper to something that might have a hope of producing a proper interrogation. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve just married her sister.”

Her eyes widened at his approach. “I truly don’t know what you might do.” A faint pink bloomed on her cheeks. “I’ve heard plenty of rumors regarding your behavior.”

West clenched his teeth. “I know you left the note in Miss Channing’s journal.” At her gasp of surprise, he circled her chair, making her twist to watch him with fear-filled eyes. “What I want to know is why.” He forced his voice to stay even, given that the girl looked about as sturdy as a feather in the wind. “Who put you up to it?”

She squirmed in her chair, her hands knotting in her needlework. “Please, Mr. Westmore. Do not tell anyone. It was just a little fun. What harm was there in it?”

“What harm?” West gave in to a growl of frustration. “Are you kidding me?”

The maid frowned. “I only passed the note on as a favor for a friend. I do not even know what it said!”

“You passed on a note from your friend.” West circled back around to glare down at her from in front of the chair. “And delivered it to an unmarried, wellborn woman. But you did not stop to think about whether the contents might prove harmful to the person receiving it? Did you not wonder, O’Brien? Were you not tempted to take a little peek?”

“No.” She began to look panicked now. “I . . . I presumed it must be a note requesting an assignation.”

“An assignation?” West began to feel murderous. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in, until he was eye-to-eye with the frightened maid. “And why, pray tell, would you think Miss Channing might be receptive to such an offer?”

“It was just . . . after the gossip rags . . .” O’Brien began to tremble, her voice trailing off. “Well, I thought she must enjoy such things.”

West balled his fists. With the maid’s unmistakably Irish surname, he’d presumed this interview would lead directly to information about a Fenian cause, Irish rebels bent on recognition. But instead, he’d stumbled into a conversation leading to nowhere, and with a girl whose accent told him she’d actually been born in London’s Cheapside, not Cork.

And he couldn’t quite contain the rage he felt at the notion that everyone—this maid, included—presumed his new wife to be of such loose morals she would gladly accept notes from strangers asking to meet in darkened corners. Particularly when he’d had to work so hard to take off her corset last night.

“I will have your friend’s name, O’Brien.”

Her face went white. “I meant no disrespect. If the note hurt Miss Channing’s feelings, it was not my intention. I thought she might want such a note, after that business with the scandal sheets. You must help me make her understand. I cannot afford to lose my position.”

“You should have thought of that before you set Miss Channing up to become a plaything for your lover. His name, please.”

She gasped, her eyes growing wider still. “No, you have it all wrong! He isn’t my lover. I only just met him, really,” she cried, wringing her hands now. “His name is George. George Carlson. And it wasn’t a note from him. He said he was only paid to see it delivered, by his employer.”

West glared down at her, his instincts sharpening. This didn’t feel like a woman feeding him a lie. O’Brien wasn’t trying to dodge out. Not trying to run, the way Vivian had. A woman with so much to lose would be unlikely to face her accuser so meekly. He wasn’t quite sure what to think. Either she was a very good actress . . .

Or she was telling the truth.

His gut told him it was the latter, and he was inclined to trust his gut, given that he’d had several excellent actresses in his day.

“Who employs your friend?” he demanded.

“H-he’s a gardener.” She shrank into her seat, tears welling in her eyes. “For the Duke of Southingham.”

West reared back. The room felt as if it was spinning. Memories pushed in, knocking against the roar in West’s ears. Southingham. Could it really be so simple? A duke, and one he had known for over a decade? He thought he’d recognized the voice, of course, but this was a connection he’d not considered.

“Describe your friend,” he said gruffly, needing to be sure.

Tears filled O’Brien’s eyes. “He’s . . . ah . . . not so tall as you, sir. Brown hair, tied in a queue.”

“Does Carlson have a scar here?” West traced the line of his jaw, remembering the man he’d seen in St. Paul’s Cathedral, the one who’d brought Vivian the money.

O’Brien nodded, the tears falling in earnest now. “But . . . oh, please. Do not say anything to his Grace, nor to Lady Ashington either. I am so, so embarrassed. I couldn’t bear it if they knew I had done this, when the note was unwanted!”

West gritted his teeth. Good Christ. If the man who had bribed the maid to deliver the note worked for the Duke of Southingham, it was nearly assured that Southingham was the peer behind the plot. The thought of it filled him with a righteous sort of rage. Southingham had always been a bully, even when he’d just been Peter Wetford. He’d used his superior title to prey upon boys who couldn’t raise a hand in defense without fear of repercussion. An easy man to hate . . .

But could he really be a traitor, too?

And as much as West wanted to shout his suspicions from the rooftops—especially given the rumors the man in question had spread about him through the years—one couldn’t just claim such a thing of a man as powerful as Southingham.

West needed proof. In hand.

The fact that it was Southingham’s purported gardener who’d arranged the note on Mary’s pillow wasn’t enough to prove to Scotland Yard the duke was involved in the plot. But as he considered whether or not it could be Southingham, his anger swelled with surety. Even if no one else believed him, he at least had a name to investigate more closely now. West’s experience with Southingham suggested the duke preyed upon those he considered weak.

Unprotected. When he’d threatened Mary, he must have presumed he was dealing with an innocent, someone he could push around.

West needed to make sure Mary wasn’t so innocent anymore.

But first, he needed to ensure the maid’s silence.

“I can see how this . . . misunderstanding may have occurred, O’Brien,” he said slowly, letting a practiced smile drift over his mouth. “But if you value your position, you mustn’t ever do anything like it again. Lady Ashington is most protective of her sister.” He raised a brow, hoping he looked threatening. “If she ever knew you’d done something like this . . . I feel sure you’d be sacked without a second thought.”

The maid knotted her hands vigorously. “Oh, no, sir. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that, ever again.” She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “Please. I . . . I need this job, sir. I’ll do anything you want. You see, I’ve eight siblings, still at home, and I send money to my family, every month.”

West leaned closer, knowing that keeping the girl silent was of paramount importance. “Then it seems you’ve a good reason to do as I ask.” He hesitated. “You said you’ve heard rumors about me, O’Brien. What have you heard?”

She blushed, her eyes landing on his mouth. “They . . . ah . . . say you are fond of a good joke.” Her lips parted. “And that you are a dreadful rake.” She drew a deep breath, her blush deepening. “And if you want something from me, in exchange for my silence . . .” Her voice trailed off, nearly ashamed. “You have only to ask. Sir.”

West shook his head, more than a little disturbed by her offer and her tear-filled eyes. Good Christ. Did she really think he would do such a thing? He had a wife to protect. To honor. And the thought of taking advantage of a woman like O’Brien, who was so desperate to keep her position she was offering to do anything he wanted, made him more than a little uneasy.

He took a step away from her, as disgusted with himself for putting her in the position as he was with the notion that he might be considered a man who might want such a thing. Really, perhaps he needed to pay more attention to the sort of rumors that trailed him.

“That won’t be necessary, O’Brien. But on the matter of jokes . . . have you heard about the time I dressed as a chamber maid to sneak into the Duchess of Southingham’s bedchamber?” At the maid’s ready nod, he inclined his head. “This time it seems the Duke of Southingham has tried to play a joke on me. He was aware of my interest in Miss Channing, you see, and wanted to see if she would stay true.”

She nodded again, apparently keen to believe any explanation that might relieve her of some responsibility.

“I am going to play a joke on him in return, one he won’t be able to stop laughing about for years.” He lifted a finger to his lips. “And I need you to keep my secret, or my surprise will be ruined. Mum’s the word, O’Brien. You can’t let anyone know, especially your friend, Mr. Carlson.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Westmore.” She shook her head vigorously, swiping at the tears that still stained her cheeks. “I won’t see him again, anyway. Seems like he tried to steer me wrong.”

“Good girl, then. If you stay silent on this, your position will be safe. It will be our small secret.” He hesitated. “And my wife must not know any of this.”

Mary stood outside her sister’s open door, clutching the book she’d intended to return to Eleanor’s bedside table. She’d caught only the last piece of the conversation, but it was enough.

Her husband’s voice, coming from her sister’s room, speaking with the maid.

It will be our small secret. My wife must not know any of this.

Her always-eager imagination leaped to the inevitable, shards of doubt burrowing beneath her skin. She lifted a hand to her mouth to catch the horrified gasp that wanted to escape.

Just last night, West had told her that she, alone, was his future. He’d made her feel like the only woman in the world. Little could she have imagined that world might only extend to his bedroom door, and that the future he’d described expired at dawn.

Embarrassed and heartsick, she hurried away, her thoughts racing, the book clutched against her chest like a shield. Somehow, she made her way to West’s room. Or rather, to their room. Standing in the doorway, she could see her trunk had been moved in this morning. But its new, hopeful position at the foot of the bed didn’t make this her room, any more than the wedding ring on her finger ensured West belonged only to her.

Through a blur of tears, she eyed the open trunk, with its neatly folded linens. Further afield, she could see a trio of brown wool dresses hanging beside dark, masculine jackets in West’s wardrobe, an intermingling of textures and fabrics that might have seemed romantic a quarter hour ago, but instead seemed hopelessly naive. She stepped inside and placed the book on the bedside table, beside the silver case of French letters.

The sight of them made her blink back tears.

She would need to insist on their use for a while longer, it seemed. Possibly a lifetime.

She swiped angrily at her eyes. Honestly, what good would crying do? It wasn’t as if tears could fix any of this. She’d spun a fanciful lie for Eleanor, told her sister she imagined making West a better man. Somehow, she had foolishly come to believe in the possibility of it.

But she shouldn’t be surprised—obstinate asses did not become strapping, well-trained steeds, just because their rider wished it so.

She began to pace, needing to focus her energy on something productive. She could write in her journal. Writing down her thoughts always seemed to help. But as she glanced down at her ink-stained fingers, she hesitated. Those stains were fresh, a product of this morning’s journal entry. If she opened her journal now, she’d see the thoughts she’d written about her wedding night, so hopeful and giddy and stupid. She couldn’t bear to think of it.

So instead, she reached into her trunk and snatched up her small jar of lemon paste, then unleashed her frustrations on her hands, scrubbing at the ink marks as though she could similarly scrub away her doubts. This marriage, she told herself firmly as she scrubbed, was not meant to be a love match. It had taken place only out of necessity, and she had no right to expect fidelity from West, not when he’d given up so much on her behalf.

But oh . . . the things he had said last night . . . the things they had done last night. And this morning, as well. She thought of him doing those things with someone else.

Had she so badly misjudged the situation? The man?

Or was it only herself she had misjudged?

Perhaps this was yet another casualty of her active imagination. She’d only seen what she’d wanted to see in him, a hero from the pages of one of her books, a champion come to rescue her. She’d seen the Victoria Cross on his bureau top and imagined him as strong and capable and caring, and perhaps he was those things, beneath his easy smile and his flirtatious ways. But the hesitancy to talk about his past, the things she had just heard from the hallway . . . those things argued trouble ahead. She didn’t know anything about him, other than the way he made her feel.

What if this was simply who he was? Had she any right to expect more of West than he was capable of delivering? She slowed her scrubbing, feeling sick to her stomach. One ought not to presume that heroes existed only to save the day. They were people, too, with faults and secrets of their own.

And she really needed to stop reading so many books.

The sound of a throat clearing scattered her focus. She whirled around, gasping in surprise, the pot of lemon paste shattering on the floor. The very man she’d been trying to scrub from her heart stood in the doorway, one shoulder casually leaned against the door frame.

She willed herself not to react to the sight of his smile, the strong hands that could wreak such beautiful havoc on her body. She ordered her fingers to uncurl, told her heart to stop hammering away in her chest. Her body, however, refused to listen. She wanted him, even with the imagined knowledge of what he’d just been up to.

Even knowing how he would hurt her, in the end.

Because when this business with tracking the traitors was finished, when their task was complete and the queen was safe from harm, they’d still be married. And if she complained about his liaisons, demanded his undying devotion, he would only grow to resent her.

For now, at least, he was smiling at her.

She straightened, embarrassed by her own weakness, by the helpless direction of her thoughts. Her past had taught her to fear. To anticipate loss. Seeing that scar on his shoulder this morning, imagining him in battle, she’d feared losing him, of course.

She simply hadn’t imagined fearing loving him.

He sniffed the air, a predator spotting its prey. Moving forward, his feet crunching on salt and glass from the broken pot, he picked up her hand and pressed a simple, seductive kiss against the back of it. His smile deepened as he inhaled. “Lemons.” The word sounded almost reverent as it fell from his lips. “Always lemons, with you.”

In spite of her resolve to harden her heart, she felt a liquid beat of pleasure in her stomach, the heady sensation that came from simply being near him. Her cheeks heated as she lifted her other hand, showing him the faint smudge of black still lingering on her fingers. “Ink stains, from writing in my journal. I scrub them with lemon juice and salt.”

“Thank God for ink stains then.” His smile was nearly to be believed. So, too, was the press of his lips, moving higher now to her cheek. “Because lemons are my new favorite scent.”

She wanted to trust him. Wanted to lean into him as those sinful lips began to nibble on her ear, sending coarse shivers cascading through her. “Really? You wouldn’t prefer something less . . . ordinary?” She swallowed as his lips moved next to her temple, his breath feathering soft against her skin. “It seems a man of your appetites might grow bored with lemons every day.”

“A man of my appetites?” He pulled back. “Why would I grow bored with lemons?”

“It just seems you might want more . . . variety.” She shrugged. “Perhaps you might like vanilla one day instead. Oranges.” She cast about. “Bergamot.”

“Bergamot?” He met her eyes. “Mary.” He said her name gently. “I’ve given you no cause to doubt me, and I won’t.” His finger cupped her chin. Lifted it until her eyes met his and she could see the darker blue ring about his irises. “You have my word on that.”

His soft command nearly convinced her. Perhaps . . . perhaps she had misheard just now, standing in the hallway. Misunderstood. But even if the worst of her fears weren’t true—even if he wasn’t seducing her sister’s maid, which was an awfully big leap of faith—by his own words, he was still keeping things from her, secrets he was sharing with others.

She wanted to close her eyes and go back to where they’d been this morning, when he’d learned the secrets of her body as she had begun to learn his. But the memory of what she’d just heard in the hallway cast a shadow over that want.

“Did you want something from me?” she asked miserably, wanting only to change the subject.

“I will always want something from you, Mouse.” His hand fell away. “But yes, I came in here looking for you for a particular reason.” He studied her a moment. “Have you ever fired a gun?”

“No.” She shook her head, the very notion of it sounding ten kinds of wrong. “I do not like guns.” A hopeless euphemism, given that her oldest brother had been killed by one. She swallowed her rising fear at the thought of such a thing. “My family doesn’t even keep hunting rifles inside the house.” Not anymore. “I’ve never held one.”

“Well, we are going to change that today.”

In spite of her fears, she blushed as she imagined what he might want her to do with a gun. “I . . . that is . . . the necktie was one thing, but this—”

“Not for that.” He chuckled. “Not that I wouldn’t try it if you wanted to, but being held at gunpoint tends to have the opposite effect on a man.” He reached under the bed and pulled forth a wooden case, placing it on top of the bed. “I wanted to show you this for another reason.”

He lifted the lid. Inside lay two long-nosed pistols with identical, gleaming wood barrels.

Mary gasped. “Why do you own a set of dueling pistols?”

“So you at least know what they are.”

She shuddered. “I’ve seen engravings in books.”

“I should have known you would have read about them.” He chuckled. “For a shy little mouse, you have a frightening degree of knowledge shored away. Grant purchased the set for me for my twentieth birthday. These are made by the finest gunmaker in London. Grant said every gentleman with a proper reputation ought to own a set of dueling pistols.”

“Your friend Mr. Grant seems to have a very odd view of gentlemen’s reputations.” She looked up, remembering all the things her sister had told her. He’s already caused one duel, thanks to his philandering nature. Her thoughts leaned toward the scar on West’s shoulder. “Have you ever had need to use these?”

“No. Nothing beyond a bit of target practice.”

“Eleanor told me you had been in a duel.”

“Yes, well, your sister also said I had been intimate with an actual corpse.” He grinned. “You might have cause to question the veracity of her claims.”

Mary pressed her lips together. “Yes, well, your reputation makes it somewhat hard to sort out the truth at times.”

His smile turned grim. “It is true that I was called out once. But I issued a formal apology before it came to pistols at dawn.”

She nodded, fitting the pieces together. Nearly a duel then. She supposed she ought to be grateful that his legend was larger than life. “Who called you out?”

“The Duke of Southingham was very angry after that business with his new wife’s bedchamber. A challenge was issued, and I nearly accepted it. But then my brother-in-law, Daniel Merial, suggested that perhaps I ought to do something more useful with my life than dying of stupidity. So I offered Southingham an apology.” He lifted the two pistols from their velvet-lined case and placed them on the bed. “I’ve avoided him ever since. Figured it was best to avoid opening old wounds.”

Mary felt nervous at the sight of the firearms, lying atop the coverlet where just this morning, West had made love to her. “Then why are you showing me these now?”

Blue eyes slid to meet hers. Held, making her lungs contract. “There is a ball we might attend, on June 19th. It will be our first opportunity to be presented publically as husband and wife. The notice of our marriage will come out this week in the Times, but not everyone will see it. It is important that everyone sees you are under my protection.” He hesitated. “And a good number of dukes will be there.”

“Including Southingham?”

“Probably.” His jaw hardened. “But that is not why I am showing you this.” He peeled back the velvet lining, reaching deeper into the case. “We’ve your list to investigate, and while I may have once thought it a poor idea, I am inclined to think your idea of speaking with each of our suspects, asking the right questions, is the only option we have left. There may come a time when I won’t be by your side. I need to know you can protect yourself, whatever happens.”

Understanding jolted through her. “You expect me to learn how to shoot one of those?” she asked incredulously, staring down at the monstrously sized dueling pistols.

“No, these are smooth bore caplock pistols. Inaccurate, unwieldy, useless in a proper fight. I’ve a theory they are fashioned that way so gentlemen with murder on their minds haven’t a prayer in hell of hitting anything.” He pulled out a derringer from a hidden chamber beneath the velvet lining, a glint of silver and polished wood. “No, this is what I expect you to learn how to shoot. And we are going to start with target practice today.”

Mary looked down at the small, snub-nosed weapon he held out, her heart knocking around in her chest. It fit tightly in his palm, and if he curled his fingers about it, she imagined it would be nearly hidden. Its diminutive stature made it seem close to harmless. Certainly nothing like the hunting rifles of her nightmares. But that didn’t make it any less dangerous.

“It’s awfully tiny,” she said dubiously.

His chuckle swam up her skin. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I met you, it is that surprising things come in petite packages.”

“Still,” she breathed, knowing her limits for bravery only went so far. “I am not overly fond of firearms. I think I’d rather learn how to use a knife.” She raised a brow as his mouth opened in surprise. “And it doesn’t have to be small at all.”