Though he knew Mary would be waking in only a few hours, West’s feet did not seem to want to turn toward home. He felt the burn of nervous energy, the impossibility of sleep.

He needed to talk to someone, someone he could trust.

And although his first instinct was to talk to Mary, she was still asleep in their bed, oblivious to what he had just uncovered.

So his feet turned south, carrying him toward St. James Street and the friendship he’d neglected for the past few weeks. Though it was now past two o’clock in the morning, White’s was still open, as he’d known it would be. West settled into his usual chair at his usual table, then looked about, hoping to find Grant. But when he spied his friend holding court by the betting book, West was reminded, then, of the wager that had placed against him.

Bugger it all. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

He looked away, irritated, only to see Lord Ashington sitting at a nearby table, nursing a glass of brandy. There would be no help from that quarter either—his new brother-in-law had already refused to believe him once tonight. In point of fact, no one believed him.

No one, that was, but Mary.

He fumbled in his jacket for a cigarette and his matches, only to find the bloody matches had gone missing. He frowned in irritation, wondering where the case had disappeared to.

Not that it mattered.

Not that any of this mattered.

He stood up. Pushed back his chair, feeling out of sorts, out of place, and nearly out of time. For Christ’s sake, what was he doing here? White’s and whisky and the occasional defiant cigarette might have once defined who he was, but he had more to live for now. And the ear he really wanted to bend, the ear he needed, would be waking up in—West impatiently checked his pocket watch—exactly two hours and thirteen minutes.

As he slipped the watch back in his pocket, the door to White’s flew open. Southingham staggered into the room, his chest heaving, spittle flying. “Westmore!” the man roared, looking around with wild eyes, then aiming directly for him.

West stood up and faced his old enemy with an almost preternatural calm. “Was there something you wanted, Your Grace?”

“It seems there’s something you want!” Southingham slapped a hand down on West’s table. “And I’ll see you in hell for it!”

West inhaled sharply as he saw the glove Southingham had just thrown down. “Is this about what I said earlier tonight?” he asked, recognizing the wide eyes crowding in around the scene, anticipating the wagers that were no doubt already being placed in the bloody book.

“It’s not about what you said. It’s about what you’ve done.” Southingham flung something at him then, a flash of silver, end over end. “And I demand satisfaction.”

West caught it. Turned it over in his fingers. It was the small case that held his matches. He didn’t need to look down to know what he would see the initials engraved on it.

G. W.

Damn it all to hell. West closed his fingers over the silver case. He must have forgotten it earlier, when he was rifling through Southingham’s desk. The duke had clearly misinterpreted things, and seemed to believe he’d left it behind as a bragging point after a midnight visit to the Duchess of Southingham. Either that, or the man was seeking to remove the threat he posed to the plot in a very public way, one no one would question.

As West studied the man seething in front of him, an idea unfurled like a banner, borne as much from necessity as helplessness. He’d found no evidence tonight linking Southingham to the plot to kill the queen, nothing tangible he could hold in his hand or show someone. But perhaps . . . if he was very lucky . . . and very, very careful . . . he might take this opportunity to defuse the threat Southingham posed without worry of a murder charge.

He forced his hands to stay loose by his side, neither defending himself nor contradicting the presumption. He only prayed the duke hadn’t taken his anger out on the duchess. She was truly innocent in all of this. “Very well then,” he said slowly. “I accept your challenge.”

“Choose your weapon,” the duke snarled.

West nodded, turning himself over to the inevitability of it. “Pistols. What distance?”

The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Twenty paces.”

“Hyde Park,” West shot back. “Dawn.”

“Name your second, Westmore.”

West hesitated. He didn’t want to drag someone else into this mess if he could help it. And as he was still rather angry with Grant for placing that gut-terrible wager . . .

“I’ll stand up as Westmore’s second.”

West turned his head to see Grant standing beside him. “No,” he protested, shaking his head. “This isn’t your fight, Grant.” Or at least, it wasn’t a fight Grant had chosen to believe in.

“Save your breath, West.” He shrugged. “It’s what friends do for each other. We save each others’ lives, be it from war or stupidity.” Grant’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “But tomorrow is too soon. You both need time to calm down and get your affairs in order. Shall we say the morning of June 26^th?”

“No.” Panic became a drum beat in West’s ears. By the established rules of etiquette, one’s second chose the time and date for the dual, and it was customary to allow time for both parties to cool down, contemplate an apology. At least, that was the way it had gone the last time Southingham had challenged him. But for God’s sake, the date Grant was suggesting was impossible. “It must be sooner,” he insisted.

Southingham’s eyes narrowed. “Eager to meet your maker, Westmore?”

“Perhaps I am just eager to make your wife a widow,” West shot back.

Instead of enraging the duke to imprudence, as he’d hoped, his words seemed to have the opposite effect. “Well you know, I do think the 26^th shall do nicely,” Southingham sneered. “Especially as I know it doesn’t particularly suit you.”

West clenched his hands. “I suppose you need the time to brush up on your target skills?” A ripple of laughter spun through the room, confirming they had a wide and interested audience.

“I could kill you with my eyes shut,” Southinghman countered. “In the dark!”

West was desperate enough to unleash his tongue, though it was a foregone conclusion he was going to say something stupid. But truly, stupid was about all he had left. He needed to push Southingham beyond reason if he was going to have any chance in hell of saving the queen from whatever was going to happen on June 24^th.

“Everyone knows I do my best work in the dark.” He hesitated, but the man already believed it of him. “Just ask your wife,” he added, hoping it would be the final nail he needed.

The buzz of the room became a roar, and from the corner of his eye, West saw several gentlemen gleefully exchanging money—no doubt over the apparent end to Grant’s unholy wager. He felt Grant’s hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him back.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” his friend protested. “Are you trying to get him to pull out a pistol here and now?”

“He’s a coward to insist on a date so far into the future!” West glared at Grant. “And you’re a bloody fool to suggest it.”

“Don’t be rash,” Grant said firmly. “Give me a chance to do my job as your second, and pull an apology out of your stupid arse, as I did last time. Regardless of whether you both end up splattering each other’s brains on the ground, you owe it to yourself to ensure a bit of time to return to rationality first.” He straightened his jacket, tugging at the ends. “I didn’t save your life at Viborg only to have you squander it now,” he warned. “And if either one of us are going to die for this, I’d suggest we ought to take a few days to enjoy ourselves first. Visit Madame Xavier’s one last time. Indulge in Vivian’s lovely feet.”

“Vivian isn’t even there anymore,” West ground out. Which Grant would have known if he had ever listened to a single word West had tried to tell him.

“Someone else’s feet then.” Grant shrugged. “And while you might be quite confident in your shooting abilities, I don’t mind saying that I could use some target practice myself.”

“There won’t be a need for you to shoot anyone, because I’m going to finish him off.” West tossed a simmering glare in the duke’s direction. “And if Southingham is truly as confident a shot as he claims to be,” he taunted, trying one last time to send the man over the edge, “it shouldn’t matter when we meet.”

Southingham bristled. “I should have killed you last year, when you first tried to steal what was mine. Saved us all a bunch of trouble.”

“It isn’t stealing when you don’t ‘own’ it,” West pointed out. “The duchess is a person, not a thing.” And that, perhaps, was at the heart of all of it. Southingham had never understood that women were more than objects designed for his personal amusement. Perhaps that was why he had reacted so poorly that memorable All Hallows’ Eve night.

The man had never once, in his wildest dreams, imagined the woman in question might have made her own choice in the matter.

“Damn it, Westmore.” Southingham looked ready to explode, but alas not, it seemed, on the side of brevity. “It shall be the 26^th, and not a day before.” He picked up his glove and turned on his heel, but shouted over his shoulder as he left. “And this time, I’d advise you to bring something other than rats to the fight.”

Darkness swirled. Rough hands shook her from her dreams.

“Mary, wake up.”

Sleep was yanked from her like a curtain pulled from its moorings, and Mary opened her eyes to the confusing combination of darkness and the bright, searing light of a nearby lamp. Not yet five o’clock then. Her mind pinwheeled against the unaccustomed intrusion, wanting only to return to sleep. But then her gaze swam upward to see her sister’s pale face looming over her.

“Eleanor,” she gasped, pushing off her covers. “Is something wrong?” The last dregs of sleep slid away, and a ribbon of fear spiraled through her. “Is it the baby?”

“Get your things,” Eleanor said firmly. “You are coming home with me.”

Confusion crushed down on her. “But . . . I am home.” Mary reeled, trying to make sense of it all. Behind her sister, she could see Lord Ashington standing silent, a lamp in one hand. Mary reached out beside her, intending to shake West awake, only to realize that his side of the bed was empty, the sheets cold to the touch. She cringed, realizing that while she might be home, her husband clearly was not. “What on earth is going on?”

“Ashington came home from White’s bearing the news.” Eleanor’s voice was pinched with anger. “And it’s simply not to be borne. Perhaps we can have your marriage annulled, somehow, given that Westmore seems to regard it as a joke.”

“Annulled?” Mary gawped at her sister. “Joke? Eleanor, what are you talking about?”

“Ashington saw all of it.” Eleanor glanced back at her husband. “Tell her. Tell her what he has done this time.”

Ashington cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Westmore has taken up with the Duchess of Southingham. The duke discovered their affair and called him out this evening.”

Mary gasped. “What?”

Eleanor nodded. “There’s going to be a duel in Hyde Park, and his friend Mr. Grant will stand up as his second.” She laid a hand around her swollen middle, though the expression on her face looked the opposite of motherly. “And if Southingham doesn’t kill him,” she added fiercely, “I’ll tear him apart myself, for treating you this way.”

Through the haze of disbelief that threatened to swamp her, Mary shook her head. “You should not be up,” she protested. “Surely it wasn’t good for you to be this upset. You could force the baby to come early.” Then again, it was nearly July now, closer to Dr. Merial’s prediction for a delivery date. And in truth, Eleanor looked fine, her eyes flashing, her chin held high. She was stirred up, to be sure, but not courting the edge of a crisis.

If only Mary’s own reaction were so measured.

Her thoughts raced in the direction of denial. It was all a misunderstanding—West wouldn’t do such a thing to her. Perhaps he had just stepped out for a moment, gone to the washroom, or to the kitchen for a bite to eat—

A movement at the bedroom door pinned her doubts to a spot where they could neither shift nor slide out of reach. West stepped inside, fully dressed, his hat in his hands. His gaze roamed the room. “What’s all this about?” he asked slowly.

“My sister could ask you the same thing,” Eleanor retorted. “Come, Mary. You don’t need to stay here with him.”

Mary hesitated, her eyes afraid to settle on her husband. Instead, they drifted toward Lord Ashington. “You saw it yourself?” she asked in a small voice. “It isn’t just a rumor you heard?”

Ashington nodded. “I saw it unfold. There’s already a round of wagers in the betting book as to who will emerge the victor.”

Mary pulled her knees up tight, disbelief and disappointment clashing in her chest. It wasn’t possible. West was standing in the doorway, his handsome face unreadable for the moment. But just a few hours ago, he’d been in bed with her, her head on his shoulder.

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

But what if it was?

Hadn’t she imagined tonight he was keeping something from her? Hiding some important detail, some crucial fact? And in spite of the way he could make her feel, hadn’t she feared he would never be happy with nothing but a mousy wife in his bed?

Her gaze settled on her husband. Standing there in his street clothes, he looked windblown and cautious and guilty as hell.

And for once, she was determined to have the truth out of him.

“Eleanor,” she said, not taking her eyes off West, “please go home now. I will speak with you in the morning, but for now I would have a word with my husband in private.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Eleanor!” Her voice came out more sharply than she intended, but she couldn’t soften it, not now. Her gaze finally swung from West’s guilty face to her sister’s shocked one. “I am a grown woman, and this is my life, and I would appreciate it if you would let me manage things myself for once!”

Her sister’s lips flattened into a line. “Very well then. But know you’ve a place to stay with us.” Eleanor shot West a poisonous glare. “A home where you are wanted and loved.” She reached out a hand and beckoned to her husband. “Come, Ashington.”

As they filed out of the room, Mary sat, waiting. Hurting. How inconvenient an organ the heart was, a stone about one’s neck, pulling one down, suffocating. And how persistent the mind, sifting through evidence while wanting to pretend none of it mattered. She reached out a hand to turn up the lamp burning low on the bedside table. Not that she expected it to help her see more clearly. There were shadows in this marriage, shadows purposefully created by her husband. She felt abraded on the inside, the fragile trust that had been starting to take shape in her marriage toppling into a pile of rubble. She’d feared losing him, of course.

Imagined all the terrible ways this affair might end.

But this was something else entirely.

“Mary, I can explain.” At least, he hoped he could explain.

West was really rather afraid he couldn’t even explain it to himself.

No matter his earlier conviction that he had the power to fix this, he was only now beginning to realize that the cost of this misguided attempt to save the queen might yet be his wife. He feared he was going to lose her. If not by gunshot, then by stupidity.

Because she’d never before looked at him with such profound disappointment, not even when she’d imagined he’d slept with a corpse.

She lifted her hands, as if trying to shield herself from his words. “Is it true, then?” The doubt in her voice told him all too clearly that she already suspected the answer, and it came close to breaking his heart. “There is to be a duel with Southingham?”

He took a tentative step forward. “Southingham called me out tonight,” he admitted. “That part’s true enough.”

“And the rest?”

He moved toward her then, wanting desperately to make her see. “No. My association with the duchess is just a misunderstanding.”

“Is this one of your infamous jokes, then?” she asked sharply.

He stopped as though she had struck him, her words twisting like the very knife he’d shown her how to use. “No. This is not a joke. Mary, I wouldn’t do that to you. Not on purpose.” Though, given his significant reputation on the matter of jokes, he probably couldn’t blame her if she believed such a thing.

“Then why.” She didn’t ask it as a question.

He moved again, stopping in front of her. “Ashington should not have rushed back to tell your sister,” he growled, pulling a hand through his hair. “The man’s a proper idiot. I thought Dr. Merial had strictly warned him against agitating your sister.”

“I do not dispute the claim of Ashington’s idiocy, but you cannot blame my sister’s agitation solely on her husband,” she snapped. “Eleanor has never liked you, and she would have found out about this, one way or another. I imagine the gossip rags are already printing the news of your evening’s adventures, and she most assuredly will see those on the morrow.”

West lowered himself to sit beside her on the bed. Caught the scent of lemons, rising off her heated skin. “I suspect Southingham is one of our traitors, Mary. I had planned to tell you myself, tonight.” Regret tugged at him, knowing he had delayed this reckoning. Perhaps even caused it, with his careful attempts to shield her from the emerging truth. But much like Crimea, he was proving ill-equipped to save those who insisted on leaping into the fray. “As soon as you woke.”

“When I woke?” she choked out, and he could hear the anger splinter through the earlier doubt in her words. “Why didn’t you tell me before I fell asleep?”

He hesitated, knowing she wasn’t going to like his answer. “I wasn’t sure yet that it was Southingham when you were falling asleep,” he said, though the explanation sounded lame, even to him.

“But you could have told me you suspected him. I told you everything I had discovered tonight, every piece of every conversation, and you sat there and said nothing. I suppose you think it is better for a wife to be kept in the dark as her husband goes about flirting with duchesses and dueling with dukes?”

In spite of the anger rolling off her, West found his lips twitching. Whether she realized it or not, her choice of words was illuminating. He was beginning to understand that beneath her anger lay something . . . interesting. “Are your objections more to a perceived flirtation,” he asked, cocking a brow, “or the threatened duel with Southingham?”

“Don’t try to distract me with that scoundrel’s smile. In fact, never mind.” She swung her legs over the opposite side of the bed. “Perhaps it is best if I go to stay with my sister after all,” she muttered, reaching for her wrapper. “It is clear you are not the sort of man I thought you were, to do something like this as a lark.”

“Mary.” He reached out a hand, curling his fingers against her arm. “It wasn’t done for a lark. That is not why I was smiling. And I don’t want you to go.”

She looked back at him, her hands clenched to fists. “Give me one good reason why I should stay and listen to another word you say.”

He bowed his head. “I will give you the truth. It is up to you to decide if it’s a good enough reason.”

Slowly, she shifted back onto the bed. At least he was talking to her now, and not avoiding the topic. Promising her the truth, instead of trying to distract her with a practiced seduction.

Whether or not he was capable of delivering it, however, was another thing entirely.

“Tell me, then,” she asked warily. “Why were you smiling just now?”

“Because it is clear you are jealous of the thought that it might be true.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Closed it again. Drat it all, but he was right. The man really could read her like a book. “What if I am? It seems I’ve a right to be, given that you have been tupping the Duchess of Southingham!”

“Tupping, is it? You seem to have lapsed a bit in your vocabulary since marrying me.”

“For heaven’s sake, can you not be serious for two seconds?” she snapped.

“All right. I’ve not tupped the Duchess of Southingham. Tupping requires touching, and I swear to you, I’ve never even touched her. Not now, and not last year, either.”

“Then why does the Duke of Southingham believe you have?”

He exhaled loudly. “I’ll admit that I permitted the misunderstanding to persist tonight, but only because it was necessary.”

“Necessary? For revenge?” She threw up her hands. “I know there is a good deal of sour history between you and the duke, but this is scarcely a harmless prank. Did you think about those who would be hurt by it? For heaven’s sake, you have very likely destroyed the duchess’s reputation. Perhaps the duke might even blame her for this. Divorce her over it.”

“He is far too possessive a man for that.” His jaw hardened. “But if he does, I say she is better off without the bastard. The man has a heavy hand.”

“Be that as it may, that ought to be her decision, not yours. And duels are nothing to trifle with. Neither are they strictly legal, West. If you kill Southingham, you could very well be charged with murder.” She swallowed, unable to give voice to the rest of it.

And I could be left alone.

“Mary. This wasn’t about revenge, or even a good joke. It was about justice.” He hesitated. “And while not legal, duels are still somewhat tolerated. Meeting Southingham on a field of honor would afford me at least some protection against a proper murder charge. But I never planned to kill the man.” He hesitated. “I only intended to take out his shooting arm.”

“What? Why?” She glared at him, none of it making sense. He’d promised her the truth, but she couldn’t see anything of it in the fits and pieces he was handing her. “If you expect me to make sense of any of this, I think you better start at the beginning.”

“The beginning, hmm?” There was a slight upturn to his handsome mouth. “Very well then, once upon a time, a man met a woman in a garden—”

“West!” she shrieked. “This isn’t one of your silly jokes!”

“I know.” He reached out. Threaded his fingers into hers. “Very well then. From the beginning. Earlier this week, I interviewed Ashington’s staff and discovered who had left the note, and at whose request. That information made me suspect the identity of our duke. Tonight I snuck into Southingham’s study and confirmed it.” At her resulting gasp, his fingers tightened against hers. “There can be no doubt he’s the duke we overheard the night of the literary salon. Tonight, I overheard him making new plans with the woman from the library.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” she asked, stunned.

“His handwriting matches the note that was left in your journal. His voice has always seemed familiar, and now I know why. I heard him, in his house, making these plans. And I did not agree to this duel out of some twisted sense of revenge. I did it because it afforded me an opportunity to disarm him.” He met her gaze. “Before he destroyed the queen.”

The room spun around her. They had a name. An identity. This changed everything. For weeks, they’d been searching for a single, guttering candle in a sea of lights.

But now, the candle had a name. A face.

She listened as he told her about interviewing Eleanor’s maid, and the girl’s roundabout connection to Southingham. He told her about the mention of Scotland and June 24^th and Vivian’s escape with the money, as well as the fact that the duke now planned to carry out the assassination himself. He told her about searching Southingham’s desk, picking up the newspaper, and accidentally leaving behind his case of matches.

“When he burst into White’s shouting for blood, I could think only of defusing the threat, so I agreed to the duel, thinking that if I could injure him, prevent him from carrying out the plan on June 24^th, I might at least buy a little time to sort the rest of it out.”

Mary sank back onto the pillows, finding it hard to breathe. “But . . . Southingham could just as easily kill you.”

“Do not worry.” His hand tightened over hers. “I am a decent shot, Mary.”

Her thoughts pulled to the scar West bore, just above his heart. Being a fair shot didn’t save someone from death if their opponent was also a fair shot. Nor did it excuse the idiocy of presuming there was no other way to go about this. “Bollocks to that,” she huffed.

In spite of the gravity of the moment, his lips twitched. “Mrs. Westmore.” He tilted his handsome head. “Did you just say ‘bollocks’?”

“I did, and I will say it again,” she said impatiently. “Bollocks to you trying to disarm Southingham in a duel. You told me yourself that dueling pistols have terrible accuracy, that they are designed to ensure gentlemen bent on killing each other haven’t a prayer of hitting where they aim. And bollocks as well to the notion that we have no other options to pursue.”

His smile faltered. “There are no other options, Mary. I swear, I have told you everything I know.”

“I believe you are telling me the truth,” she breathed. But neither could she trust he would continue to do so. Even if what he said was true, even if this started as a misunderstanding and evolved into a plan for him to play the reluctant hero, he was apparently willing to let everyone else in London believe he would do such a thing, her sister included.

Which meant he had no notion about how such a thing might hurt her.

“It just seems clear you didn’t believe in me. You interrogated Lord Ashington’s staff without telling me your plans, and then you pursued the lead with Southingham without giving me any clue you suspected him.” Her voice hitched, though she tried in vain to steady it. “You didn’t care enough about me to have been honest with me from the start.”

“Good God, Mary,” he said, his voice sounding raw. “How can you think that? I believe you are brave, and smart, and too full of good ideas. But the thought of involving you in this terrifies the hell out of me.” He shook his head. “I used to have nightmares about Crimea, but now my dreams are tangled with you and the danger I cannot defuse.” His eyes met hers, pleading. “Can’t you see? I care about you, too much. And the notion that I might be unable to save you . . . I don’t think I could live with myself if anything happened to you.”

“Live with yourself?” Mary snorted, though her heart had thawed several degrees to hear him say he cared about her. It wasn’t a confession of love, but it was something more than she’d feared several minutes ago. “For heaven’s sake, tonight you goaded a man into a duel.” In spite of her resolve, her voice wavered. “You may not live.”

He bowed his head. “I should have told you before now, but I was afraid . . .” She heard him swallow. “I was afraid of losing you.”

“You might still,” she warned. “Because while I can forgive the deception this time, I can’t help but fear you will just break my heart again and again.” She choked on the last piece of it, but somehow got it out. “And I am not sure I want to spend the rest of my life with someone I cannot trust.”

He winced. “You deserve better than me, Mary, God knows you do. I’ve been a scoundrel and a rake and more than a bit of a hothead. But that just means I need to become the man you deserve. When this is all over, I vow I will fight to earn your trust.”

Mary allowed herself a slow nod of agreement. When this is all over. It was a reminder that the path to this happy ending was far from assured, and that the fate of her marriage took a second place, at present, to the fate of the queen.

“When do you meet the duke?” she asked.

He sagged visibly. “That’s the worst part of it. Southingham has insisted on June 26^th. Too late to do any good.”

A chill ran through her, but she pushed it from her mind. If nothing else, the delayed date gave her time to think. “Of course Southingham didn’t want to meet you before the 26^th. He has something important to do first.” She held out her hand. “May I see the newspaper you took from the duke’s study tonight?”

He pulled it from his jacket pocket and handed it over to her.

The answer was on the first page, the headlines all but screaming it out loud. “The foundation stone is to be laid for the new Freemason’s Hall in Edinburgh on June 24^th.” Mary tapped a finger against the newsprint. “There is to be a grand procession of Freemasons from Holyrood Palace, with thousands in attendance. Look.”

He stared down at the paper she held in her hands. Took a moment to take in the details. “Good God.” His jaw hardened. “Southingham plans to blame it on the Freemasons.”

“That night, in the library, when they mentioned the word constitution, they must have been referring to the new Grand Lodge, and the Scottish Constitution of Freemasons,” Mary said, her mind connecting all the puzzle pieces, seeing, at last, how they fit. Dread sent her stomach churning, though the sensation warred with the relief she felt to have finally figured it out. “And according to this newspaper account, the queen plans to attend the laying of the foundation stone.”

West looked up. Met her gaze for a smoldering second of indecision, where she feared he might once again prove himself an overprotective oaf.

But then he nodded once, as if coming to an important decision. “You are right. The only question is, what are we going to do about this?”