West was shown to Lord Ashington’s drawing room, with an apology from the butler that Lady Ashington regretted being indisposed due to her condition and was therefore unable to “rip into him herself.” Not that he didn’t deserve the sentiment, given what had occurred with the woman’s sister, but still . . .

Perhaps a lack of decorum ran in her family?

Bloody wonderful. Any children resulting from this terrible plan would almost certainly be laughingstocks, given that a lack of decorum most definitely ran in his own.

He shifted from foot to foot as he waited to see if he would be received, as if such a mindless movement could redistribute the embarrassment of his morning and the weight of the special license sitting in his pocket. He caught sight of the clock on the mantel. Realized it was already half past three. Normally, he would be just shaking himself from bed about now. Heading to White’s to meet Grant for a glass or five, throwing himself into a ripping good game of billiards, plotting his next rig.

Instead, he’d been up since dawn, and had spent a useless few hours at Scotland Yard, where he’d first tried to lodge his complaint. The uniformed officer pretending to take his statement had sniggered, especially when West couldn’t give an actual name as to whom the plot might be directed against. The man had shooed him out, waving the gossip rag in his face, snorting about past jokes and the like.

A reputation with the ladies was all well and good, but it seemed West’s legend in those areas was proving a poor inducement for constabulary action.

Miss Channing appeared in the drawing room doorway so quietly his initial misnomer was brought to mind. Miss Mouse. She looked it today, too, clad in a hideous, mud-colored dress, her dark hair pulled back into a braid wound about her head, her nose lacking only whiskers for the full, mousy effect. He thought back to their first meeting, when he’d teased her over the sodden rosebush. That, he suspected, was the real Miss Channing, not the kiss-seeking siren who had given him a cockstand in St. Bartholomew’s medical library last night.

Today there was no tempting nipple in sight, nor hint of rounded bosom either. She must be wearing one of those utilitarian corsets beneath all that wool, the ugly sort women wore when they weren’t trying to tempt a man. That was the first request he’d make as her husband.

Miss Channing should wear only French lingerie.

Something scandalous underneath to brighten up the bland exterior of their future lives.

A gray-haired housekeeper hovered a few steps behind, no doubt intended to serve as chaperone. Perhaps Miss Channing was suffering an ill-timed return to respectable behavior.

Unfortunately, it was a little too late for that.

She stepped into the drawing room, her hands laced in front of her plain wool skirts. He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous, though he’d known what his path must be from the moment Clare had revealed who, exactly, this woman was. “Miss Channing,” he began, before his nerves utterly failed him. “I have come to make amends.”

She said nothing in response, merely raised a brow.

He summoned the words he’d practiced no less than a dozen times on the way here. “Given the unfortunate events of last evening, I am prepared to marry you with all due haste.”

Plain brown eyes assessed him, as unexceptional as her hair. She wasn’t his usual sort at all—which was to say she was neither overtly attractive nor skilled in ways that mattered.

And good God, was that ink he spied staining her hands?

He was doing her a favor, coming up to scratch like this. He could have any woman he wanted in London—and frequently did. She ought to be very glad he was a man who owned up to his mistakes.

She lifted her chin. And then she said . . . “No.”

And not a whisper of a word either, but an emphatically delivered syllable that bounced about in his skull before falling into a final state of understanding.

Was she deranged? Deluded? “But . . . you have to,” he protested. “Your reputation—”

“My reputation is hardly the concern of a man who hasn’t a care for his own.”

West stopped. Good God. She had him there. His only concern for his own hide at present was that he feared it was about to be shackled to her. “Nonetheless, I must beg you—”

“Begging does not suit you, Mr. Westmore. You will not change my mind. I will not marry you. Honestly, I do not even like you.”

West gaped at her, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that she had refused him. For God’s sake, did the woman not understand her starring role in the morning’s gossip rags? “I am not sure liking me has much to do with marriage,” he muttered. His vision felt blurred at the absurdity of this conversation. She had refused him?

His ego was positively twitching.

Usually, women knocked themselves silly for a chance in his bed, emboldened by the rumors of his exploits, wanting to count him among their conquests. He’d never had a woman refuse him before. At least, not since that trip to Florence, when he and Grant had been nineteen and utterly full of themselves. That trip had inspired his early academic interest in architecture, but it had also inspired some memorable misbehavior. Grant had dared him to proposition a pretty—but devout—nun for a kiss in the vestibule of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore. Never one to back out on a dare, West had turned on the charm.

The nun had said “no”, too, in much the same tone.

West had regrouped. Dusted off his self-esteem.

And chosen his targets more carefully in the future.

But Miss Channing didn’t seem interested in being his latest target. In fact, she was pinching her lips into a straight line that bespoke a great irritation, rather than any great attraction. She cut a pointed look toward the housekeeper. “Would you please give us a moment alone, Mrs. Greaves? It seems Mr. Westmore needs a bit more convincing of my feelings on this matter. I would spare him the humiliation of another public refusal.”

The housekeeper did as she was told, and Miss Channing closed the door firmly behind the woman. As she turned back to face him, West glanced uneasily at the closed door.

What in the devil? “I . . . that is . . . shouldn’t we leave the door open?”

She lifted her chin. “No.”

He was beginning to hate the word, no matter that this morning he’d felt like shouting it himself as he’d considered his limited options to fix this mess. The single syllable flowed off her lips like melted butter, but it scalded like molten lead on impact. “Isn’t this a little too close to the situation that got us into this trouble last night?” he pointed out.

Her brows rose, mocking him. “I shut the door this time, which means it was my decision, not yours.” She moved toward him, her mouth losing some of its pinched shape. “And there is the small matter that no one in this room is plotting an assassination.”

Good Christ. “You don’t mince words, do you, Miss Channing?”

“On the contrary, I just minced them for Mrs. Greaves.” She advanced on him. “But I didn’t want an audience for this discussion, not until we have a proper plan in place. I don’t know who to trust, and the servants are prone to gossip.”

“Well, trusting me is a poor idea.” God knew he didn’t trust himself, especially not around her.

“Do you know, that is just what my sister said?” She took another step toward him, sparking a feeling in his gut the very opposite of unpleasant. “But I have to, you see. There is no one else. I tried talking to my sister, but she didn’t believe me, and I . . . well . . . she is expecting.” She winced. “Such unpleasantness could be harmful for her and the baby.”

She came to a stop within touching distance—but not, he noticed, within kissing distance. As he had last night, he caught the lovely, titillating scent of sugared lemons, floating off her skin. Did she bathe in the stuff?

Perhaps she intended to ward off suitors and vampires?

“So tell me, Mr. Westmore.” Her chin lifted. “What are we going to do about what we heard in the library?”

“As I said last night, Miss Channing,” he ground out, “we aren’t going to do anything. This isn’t a matter you should concern yourself with.” Though, maddeningly, it wasn’t a matter anyone else seemed willing to concern themselves with either. The peelers at Scotland Yard ought to have at least written his statement down. Looked into things.

Humored him.

“Well, I am concerned. Someone is plotting to kill someone important by the sounds of things, and if I may be frank, this business of trying to swoop in like a white knight to save my reputation with a marriage proposal is a distraction we don’t need right now. We have to do something. Given that my sister doesn’t believe me, it falls to you.” She hesitated. “Have you told anyone?”

West’s jaw grew tighter. She might have a mousy exterior, but she seemed to know just how to poke at him, stir his agitation. He was well-tested in battle, but the voices from the library belonged to a nameless, faceless sort of enemy. And no matter Miss Channing’s enthusiasm for the topic, he was the wrong man for the job.

“I tried to talk to my sister about it,” he admitted. “She doesn’t believe me. No one in my family will. They all believe it is a joke of some kind. I am afraid I have a bit of a reputation for such things.”

“Yes, I’ve received quite an earful this morning about your reputation.”

In spite of the gravity of the situation, West’s lips twitched. So, Miss Channing had heard something of his reputation, had she? And she was still standing in front of him, close enough to touch? That was . . . interesting.

She tapped a finger against her lips. “Then I suppose we must go to Scotland Yard. They will know what to do.”

“I’ve already tried this morning,” West confessed. “I am afraid they didn’t believe me either.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why ever not?”

“I am on a list.”

“What sort of a list?”

He shifted uncomfortably. This morning’s experience with the police had been illuminating. It was going to be an impossible task, getting someone to listen. Thanks to the gossip rag confirming their little adventure last night and his own less-than-stellar history, no one in a position of authority would believe either of them. They could tell the unvarnished, God’s honest truth, and everyone would presume it was a distraction they had invented to divert attention from their own scandal.

Worse, facing Miss Channing’s question reminded him how he’d dug this hole for himself since his return from Crimea. He might have a goddamned Victoria Cross gathering dust on top of his bureau, but he wasn’t a man people should trust, and for arguably good reason.

“Apparently, I’ve caused them to waste too much time of late,” he admitted.

Her mouth rounded in surprise. “Scotland Yard has you on a watch list?”

“Yes, they tend to do that after you play a joke on the bride of a duke.”

She gaped at him, her mouth open in a perfect “O” of surprise.

West shrugged. “It was harmless, really. Just a bit of fun.”

And perhaps a bit of revenge.

When West had returned from Crimea, he and Grant sought distractions at every turn, be they bottles, barmaids, or bullies. When he’d heard Peter Wetford had come into his title as the new Duke of Southingham, he and Grant had hatched a proper prank, one for the record books. Stealing a kiss from the duke’s new bride seemed the perfect lark, sure to needle the man into an attack of apoplexy, and in truth, Grant hated Southingham every bit as much as West did.

“My friend Grant and I dressed as chamber maids and tried to sneak into the Duke of Southingham’s house, on the night of his wedding. Our goal was to reach the bedchamber of his new bride before Southingham did and steal a kiss or three,” he admitted. “But my ruse was found out too soon.”

Her eyes widened. “What gave you away?”

He swiped a hand across his chin. “Apparently, it isn’t acceptable for a chamber maid to have beard stubble.” He grinned. “Or for that matter, a proper pair of stones.”

Mary’s cheeks flamed with heat. Surely he just hadn’t said that word, a word so embarrassing, so crude she couldn’t even repeat it.

“But . . . how would they know you had a pair of . . . well, how would they know that?” she asked, her throat tight. “Weren’t you wearing skirts? Honestly, what sort of practical jokester doesn’t even know to do that?”

“I was wearing skirts at the start of the adventure,” he admitted sheepishly. “But I was distracted by the duchess’s uncommonly pretty maid. And then one thing led to another . . .” He chuckled. “Suffice it to say we were discovered in flagrante delicto. And I never was able to steal that kiss I was after.”

Mary couldn’t help it. She rolled her eyes. Eleanor had given her a dozen good reasons to vigorously distrust Mr. Westmore. She had her own reasons after the disastrous kiss behind the curtain last night. And now he was openly admitting he’d seduced a maid while dressed as a woman and plotting to kiss someone’s brand-new bride? She tried to summon the appropriate degree of disgust, but it was difficult to sort out the proper degree of outrage she ought to feel when he delivered the story with such a saucy grin.

He didn’t look like a man who might enjoy relations with four women. Or a governess.

Or a corpse.

No, drat it all, he looked like a hero from the pages of one of her books: earnest and faithful and unerringly handsome. But that was neither here nor there. His bedroom habits and his penchant for saying and doing scandalous things were not her primary concern. Someone was plotting an assassination attempt, and her imagination was insisting the target must be terribly influential to require four people, a clandestine meeting, and the future exchange of a large sum of money.

Britain’s reach was vast—India, the Orient. She imagined the world thrown into chaos, wars potentially lost. Beyond the political cost, though, lay something sharper. A fierce understanding that if not her, if not them, then who would act? If Scotland Yard would not help, if neither of them were to be believed by skeptical family members, then that meant they were the only ones who possessed the ability to do something here.

Ever since she’d heard those dreadful words from behind the library curtain, she’d felt jerked back in time, unpleasant memories crowding out the embarrassment of her ruin. So many years ago, when her brother and father had been killed, she’d been a helpless child, reeling in the face of that unimaginable loss. On more occasions than she could count, she’d wished for the ability to go back in time, to do something that might change the new, terrifying course of her life. Well, here she was. On the cusp of another tragedy.

Only this time she was a woman grown. She was here, in London, supposedly tasked with “rediscovering her spark.” She had been miraculously unsheathed from her usual timidity, thanks to a gossip rag and a bit of embarrassment.

And this time, she was not going to shrink into herself and let this terrible thing happen without at least trying to do something to stop it.

“Well, if Scotland Yard will not help, we must track them down ourselves,” she said, determined to be brave. She extracted the list she’d made earlier from her sleeve, and opened it with a flourish. “I took the liberty of compiling a list of likely targets, so we might organize our thoughts.” She smoothed a finger over the three names she had written down. “Number one: The prime minister.”

She received only a pointed silence in response.

She looked up, wondering if perhaps he had become distracted by something shiny. But no, he was gaping at her. She lifted a hand to her temple, wondering if perhaps he was staring because her hair was coming down. It was still anchored firmly in its braid.

“Mr. Westmore,” she said sharply, “I need you to focus.” She handed him the list to read himself, then began to pace the length of the drawing room, avoiding the freshly cut flowers sitting in a vase on the mantel. The smell reminded her, too much, that Mr. Westmore was a scoundrel in whom she was being forced to place some measure of trust. “Read on, if you please.”

“Number two,” he said weakly, looking down at the piece of paper she’d thrust into his hands. “A foreign diplomat or spy.” He rubbed his forehead. “Actually, that suggestion makes a good deal of sense.”

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “What do you think of Number Three?”

There was a moment’s hesitation as he glanced down once more. “The queen?” he said, his voice tightening.

“I put her as Number Three because I was trying to give the other ideas due merit, but I really think she is the most likely target, don’t you? After all, there have been several past assassination attempts.”

He folded the paper, his face unreadable. “None of which were successful. Just the rambling efforts of madmen.”

“A good point,” she conceded. “We should probably consult with the staff at Bedlam. We could see if anyone has been released recently, someone who might harbor political ill will toward the Crown.”

His gaze lifted, and she felt the impact of his doubt like a sharp pinch to her arm. “I hardly think a visit to Bedlam will help, Miss Channing.”

“Why not?” she asked, growing irritated by his lack of enthusiasm.

“Because those who are admitted to Bedlam rarely come out, particularly not if they’ve been spouting nonsense about killing the queen. Suffice it to say I feel sure Scotland Yard would take their word far more seriously than they seem inclined to take my own.”

She glared at him. “But perhaps someone on staff there might offer us guidance as to the sort of person we ought to be looking for, the kind of man who might do such a thing. Presumably they have a good deal of experience with madmen.”

He inclined his head, studying her as though she had two heads. Which she didn’t. She only had one. But it was quite a useful head, thank you very much. And she wasn’t inclined to pretend it wasn’t, just because his proximity made her squirm like a fish on a hook.

“It seems you have given this matter a good deal of serious thought.” He shoved the folded list into his pocket, and his lips twitched upward. “Tell me, Miss Channing.” He spread his hands in front of his body. “Did you lie awake in bed last night, thinking of . . . all of this?”

The suggestion in his voice was unmistakable.

It was not at all proper for a gentleman to say such things to an unmarried woman. And worse, his words were too close to the truth for comfort.

“Well, I certainly didn’t lie awake last night thinking of you,” she retorted, hoping he couldn’t see through her bravado to the lie lurking beneath. In truth, she’d taken it upon herself to make the list last night because she had required a noble distraction: she couldn’t otherwise stop thinking about him. Even now, her thoughts kept drifting insistently toward the kiss they had shared. The way his hand had felt, pressed against her breast.

The way she had felt, kissing him back.

Her face heated, and she pressed a hand against the side of her cheek. Drat it all, now she was most definitely thinking about him. And she couldn’t distract herself with lists at the present moment, not when the list that wanted to materialize in her mind started with:

Number One. Close the distance between them.

Number Two. Press her lips against his, one more time.

“Are you ill, Miss Channing?” He smirked at her, and in that moment she could have sworn he could see through her thoughts and her dress to what lay beneath.

She shook her head impatiently. “No.” He might be smirking, but at least he wasn’t laughing at her yet. Then again, he wasn’t yet aware of her very active imagination and the long history of teasing from family and friends that came with that. “Just impatient. You’ve not commented on the likelihood of anyone on my list beyond the queen.”

“Very well then.” His smirk fell away, and he sounded nearly pained by her insistence on a proper analysis. “Why the prime minister? Lord Derby is newly appointed. Surely it is too soon for him to have developed such motivated political enemies.”

“The men in the library mentioned the word ‘constitution’,” she said, taking a cautious step toward him. “That seems to imply some connection to a government, and Lord Derby is presently the most powerful political figure in Britain.”

“Except you are forgetting the fact that Britain doesn’t have a proper constitution.” He shrugged. “Although, I suppose it could be the Americans. They are always going on and on about theirs, as if it is necessary to have a piece of paper and a handful of signatures to establish a nation’s civility.”

Another idea took hold. “Could they mean Constitution Hill?” She thought of the popular, open road that led from Buckingham Palace to Hyde Park. Important figures travelled the route with predictable regularity. “Weren’t shots fired from there during one of the queen’s previous assassination attempts?”

He lifted a brow. “You know your history, Miss Channing.”

“I do possess the ability to read. It was in all the papers.”

“Ah. Yes. Reading.” His lips quirked. “Not surprising you might enjoy such a pedestrian activity. We did, after all, first meet in a library.”

Drat the man, for reminding her of that, when she was trying so hard to forget. Though, to hear him denigrate the one activity at which she actually excelled made it a bit easier to hate him in this moment. “Actually, I believe we first met in a garden,” she pointed out. “You were urinating on a rosebush.”

“The problem,” he said, not seeming the least bit bothered by the reminder of what should have been a shameful encounter, “is that the word ‘constitution’ could refer to so many things. They might have been referring to the charter of some organization, or they could have simply been describing their chosen assassin’s specific constitution for drawing blood.” He shrugged. “It is better not to speculate, lest it lead us down a wrong path.”

Mary looked at him. Her gaze wanted to linger a little too long on the angular planes of his face—not an impulse one wanted to suffer with a man one didn’t intend to marry. Irritated with herself for such weakness—and angry with Mr. Westmore for posing such a singular distraction—she straightened her shoulders. “We must speculate as to the meaning. The word ‘constitution’ is one of our only clues, and we need to follow it.”

He snorted. “It is to be ‘we’, is it?”

Mary hesitated. She would be the first to admit she wasn’t exactly a good choice for this adventure. She still hadn’t conjured enough bravery to venture back out into the flower garden, and Eleanor needed her here, in case the baby came early.

Still, that burning desire to act, to do something, would not leave her be. “I only meant—” she started, but stopped when she saw his upraised hands.

“You are forgetting,” he said, “that I have other clues.”

She resented, a bit, how easily he’d substituted the word “I”. “Such as?”

“One of the women in the library called one of the plotters ‘Your Grace.’ There are only a few dozen men who can claim a ducal title in Britain.”

Excitement began to buzz in her head. It was very close to the way Mary felt when she was reading a delicious new book and the hero managed to surprise her. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Probably because she spent very little time in the company of dukes.

Or, for that matter, future viscounts.

“And they made plans to meet this Sunday, at St. Paul’s Cathedral,” she exclaimed, her enthusiasm drumming louder now. She took a step closer, forgetting, for the moment, that Mr. Westmore was supposed to be dangerous. And that she was supposed to find him abhorrent. He was now close enough to touch, and her fingers nearly twitched with the temptation of that thought. “So, we must go to service at St. Paul’s this Sunday,” she said, “and see which dukes are in attendance!”

Westmore’s hand came up to chuck her under the chin, even as he flashed her another smirk. “To quote a woman of my very recent acquaintance,” he drawled, “no.” He turned away and headed toward the drawing room door, his voice trailing over his shoulder. “I will provide the legs for this investigation. You will stay out of this and leave the matter to those who can handle a bit of danger without fainting dead away.”

“But . . . I want to come,” she protested, resenting the way his hand was already reaching for the door. As odd as the sentiment was, given that she’d practically had to be dragged to last night’s literary salon, she found that in this moment, she wanted to be involved.

And in truth, she’d only fainted last night because of the unnatural, vise-like grip of Eleanor’s borrowed corset. She’d found it impossible to breathe when she’d most needed to.

But wearing her own front-lacing corset, surely she’d be able to—

He glared at her over his shoulder, severing that line of thought. “This is far too dangerous a mission for you, and I’ll be damned if I will be held responsible for your ruin and your death, Miss Channing. I will attend services myself on Sunday. Identify and stop the traitors, if I can.”

“And if you are unsuccessful in that endeavor?” she retorted. She ought to be glad he seemed poised to do something, but instead she felt hurt. He was planning to exclude her, when it had been her own idea to attend Sunday services to look for them. How could he? She was every bit as much a part of this as he was.

More so, in fact. She had sacrificed her reputation—furtive, fledgling thing that it had been—to uncover this plot. He’d done nothing more noteworthy than kiss her behind some curtains and then give her a fumbled proposal of marriage.

His face turned grim. “Then at least I will have more information on which to make an informed decision. And you shall be safely at home, where you belong.”