‘Flynn’s found me a manservant,’ Jared remarked as he passed a dish of salsify to Sophie. They were serving themselves without footmen in attendance and they could relax. ‘Youthful, freckled and with a yen to learn swordsmanship. I have no idea where he found him, although he says he is a friend. But not that kind of friend.’

Sophie nodded. She knew about Flynn’s sexuality but Jared suspected that the only thing that mattered to her was that he was loyal to Cal. ‘I know. I overheard him in the kitchen this afternoon – it was his half day and he came round to sob on Flynn’s shoulder. Not literally, of course. It seems the Portman’s butler has a down on him, or, rather, he favours his own nephew who is in service there and young – Dover, is it? – young Dover has been getting the short end of the stick for far too long. You should be all right with him, Flynn is a good judge of character.’

‘Michael has learned to be cautious,’ Cal said. ‘Anyway, I am glad he has found you someone, although whether this young man can raise the dead with as much skill as Flynn has used on that suit of yours remains to be seen.’

Jared glanced down at his immaculate self and nodded. ‘He has made a good job of it, considering that I packed my riding boots and a pile of books on top of it. He is sulking because I won’t wear that confounded waistcoat of yours though.’ His was of black watered silk, as always.

‘I bought it on a whim and he is quite correct, it looks appallingly clerical. I shall have to send it to a charity for distressed prelates, but I will tease him with it a little longer.’

‘Never mind your waistcoats,’ Sophie said with a wave of her empty wine glass. ‘How can we help Lady Northam? Other than by befriending her, of course.’

Jared leaned over to refill her glass. ‘Keep an eye on her this evening. Does anyone watch her in particular? Do you overhear any remarks about her? Someone must hate her.’

Sophie shivered. ‘It is awful. We will do our best.’

 

Was there anywhere lonelier than the midst of a crowd of people? Guin descended the shallow sweep of stairs down into the Fulborne’s ballroom, her hand on Augustus’s arm, her chin up, a smile on her lips that felt as though it had been tacked there.

She knew she looked well. That was important, that was one of the things that she owed to Augustus. The gown of silver net over palest blue silk was a masterpiece of elegant simplicity, setting off the aquamarine and diamond set that had been her husband’s wedding present. The gems were chill around her neck and over her bosom, the weight of the earrings pinched at her earlobes, her wrists felt weighted down by bracelets and the combs fixing the delicate tiara into her hair seemed to dig in claws.

Smile. Someone out there hates me, so do not show them my fear. Was her enemy in this swirling throng, did one of the faces that had turned to look when they had been announced hide the secret to the persecution? Or was her tormentor operating at a distance through bought agents?

But she was not alone, she must remember that. She had Augustus, bless him, although she wanted to protect him as much as he wanted to shield her. And now she had Jared Hunt who made her feel safe even as he made her feel so very unsafe, simply by being himself, so uncompromisingly male.

Where was he? Had he arrived already? She supposed he would have done, he was a professional. Guin scanned the crowd, but it was more difficult now they were at the level of the ballroom. People smiled, nodded, made momentary small talk as they passed, but no-one lingered long, not to talk to the young woman with no connections and no status who had ensnared a doting elderly viscount.

Once she had partners and Augustus was satisfied that she was dancing happily, then he would be absorbed into one of the groups of older men here to escort their daughters and wives. His friends, his generation, not hers.

‘Lord Northam! How delightful to see you again. We were introduced at Lady Sefton’s reception, do you recall? Sophie Calderbrook. This must be your wife.’ The blue-eyed beauty with the wonderful golden hair who was smiling at her with genuine warmth was the Duchess of Calderbrook? A duchess wanting an introduction to me?

Augustus was beaming. ‘Certainly, Your Grace, this is Lady Northam. Guinnie, my dear, the Duchess of Calderbrook. Ah – and here is the Duke.’

‘And may I introduce our friend Mr Hunt?’ The Duke arrived at his wife’s wide with Jared and they both shook hands and smiled and Jared behaved as though he had never set eyes on her before.

So that was why the Duchess had taken a sudden fancy to be introduced – but what was the ambiguous Mr Hunt doing in the Duke’s party at a ball? She had thought that he was only going to ask an ex-employer for help to secure an invitation, yet both the Duke and Duchess were treating him as a close friend. He was smiling at her now, with the perfectly-calculated expression of a man who is admiring a married lady in the most respectful way. Then his left eyelid flickered down in an unmistakeable wink and she caught back the sudden laughter.

‘Now then, what is the state of your dance card, Lady Northam?’ the Duchess asked. ‘Because mine is empty. Cal, darling, which of mine do you want? You may not have more than two. Jared, you must ask me for at least one, to save me the embarrassment of an empty card.’

Guin blinked at the Duchess who was teasing Augustus now about his reluctance to dance. And other men were joining their group and asking for dances from both the Duchess and from her, respectable married men who had never asked Guin before. She suspected that was because their wives had disapproved of her and had decided that she was planning to be a Wicked Widow before long.

‘There is a good table over there, I will save it for us.’ The Duke cut diagonally across the dance floor, empty just now with the dancing not yet begun.

The Duchess tucked her hand through Guin’s arm. ‘You will join us won’t you, Lady Northam? Oh look, there are my Mama and Step Papa.’ She waved and an older version of her gilded beauty waved back. ‘Theirs was a famous love match,’ she confided as they made their way across to the grouping of chairs against the wall, set around a small table and with a perfect view of the dance floor. ‘It is hopelessly embarrassing having people sigh over them, even now.

‘There.’ The Duchess settled herself, patted the chair next to her. ‘We are going to be great friends. You must call me Sophie and you are Guinevere, I think? Such a lovely name.’

It was utterly confusing. ‘What has Mr Hunt told you about me?’ Guin said abruptly as she sat down. Her given name for a start, because no-one had used it during the introductions. The only possible reason for this extraordinary show of friendship must be that Jared had spoken of her to them and had asked them to acknowledge her.

‘He said that he thought you needed a friend and that he wanted to come to the ball with us so as to keep watch over you without it being too obvious. And if you require Jared to look after you then you are in need of more than friendship.’ She leaned closer. ‘He scared me to death when we first met – he can seem so very sinister – but he is my husband’s closest friend and has saved his life and now I think he is wonderful. But do not tell him I said so or he will tease me. And Cal and I are utterly discreet, so you can tell me all about your problem if you wish. And if you do not, then I will still hope to be your friend.’

‘Your Grace – ’

‘Sophie, please. And my husband is Cal to all our friends.’

‘Sophie, I do not know why you should wish to befriend me, other than to please Mr Hunt. I have married above me, and I am very much younger than my husband and that seems enough for most people to turn away from anything other than mere acquaintance.’

‘I am a duchess,’ Sophie said. ‘It took me quite a while to get used to it, but believe me, if I take you up, then the silly geese who assume the worst will soon revise their ideas. And as for why, then I can only say that I do not have so many friends that another is not very welcome and if Jared says I will like someone, then I trust his judgement.’

‘I... excuse me.’ Guin tugged ineffectually at the tight strings of her reticule.

Sophie handed her a handkerchief. ‘Blow your nose, smile, do not let the vultures see any signs of weakness.’ She laughed and her husband turned and looked at her with such love in his eyes that Guin wanted to cry even more.

Instead she sniffed and managed to get into her reticule. ‘Thank you, Here is my clean one in exchange. Goodness knows why kindness should be so weakening – I have managed not to shed a tear up to now and the most ghastly things have been happening.’

‘It is reaction to the sight of the relieving army coming over the hill,’ Sophie said with a chuckle. ‘You were fighting by yourself and then Jared arrived, and he is a complete regiment in himself, and now Cal and I have joined the barricades. We have a few moments before the music begins, you can tell me the bare outline of the problem.’ She raised her voice a little. ‘Cal, darling, fend people off while I talk to Guinevere.’

Guin told it all, as briefly as she could, from the first incident up to the firework down the chimney. Sophie gasped and nodded encouragingly and waved and smiled at passing acquaintances as though she had been involved in intrigue all her life and was not hearing a shocking and puzzling tale.

‘They are not trying to kill you, are they?’ she said when the tale was told. ‘I should think it might be easier to solve if they were. I wonder what on earth can be behind it.’

‘And I wonder whether your kindness will frighten them off or aggravate them,’ Guin said slowly.

‘It might be better if they are aggravated.’ Jared had been leaning against a pillar just behind them. Now he came and sat beside Sophie. ‘The last thing we want is them going to ground at this point when we have no clue about who it is, or why.’

Guin looked at him properly for the first time that evening, now she could do so while pretending to be talking to the Duchess. He looked sleek and dangerous, all in black against the colour and glitter of the ballroom, his hair clubbed back severely at the nape of his neck in a style that should have looked old-fashioned but which merely served to emphasise how different he was from the men around him.

‘Are you armed, Jared?’ Sophie demanded. ‘I find it positively unnerving, seeing you without a sword.’

‘Knives,’ he said laconically. ‘I do not expect an attack here, although I am watching for one, of course. My suspicion is that whoever is targeting Lady Northam is employing agents of a kind who would not fit in a ballroom.’ The dark eyes surveyed the room, narrowed. ‘Except as footmen, we must not overlook them. What I am hoping for is to pick up gossip, to see who is watching Lady Northam, watching in the hope of seeing some sign of strain. To find the principal behind this, in effect.’

‘You think that is what this is?’ Sophie asked. ‘Harassment?’

‘The attacks have not escalated in danger, no explicit threats or demands have been made. Here comes the orchestra. Lady Northam, who is your first dance partner?’

‘The Duke,’ she confessed, hardly believing it as the musicians stopped tuning and swept their bows over the strings in a flourish.

The Duke – Cal – stood up, bowed and offered his hand. ‘I assume I stay in the middle of the floor?’ he asked Jared.

‘No, go where you will. I am watching. Oh, and do not accept a supper dance invitation, Lady Northam. You will join the Duke’s party.’

‘Mr Hunt is very assertive,’ Guin observed, taking the proffered hand. A duke taking orders from a swordmaster?

‘That is one way of putting it.’ The Duke was almost grinning. ‘He knows what he is doing. There is no need to be frightened, Lady Northam.’

‘I do not think I am,’ she said as they took their places for the first set. ‘I suppose I ought to be, but I am more angry than alarmed now. Although I am worried about the effect this anxiety and suspense is having on my husband.’

They were separated by the measures and besides, this was no topic of conversation for the dance floor. Guin made herself forget the threat and her worries and allowed herself to enjoy dancing with a duke and attending a social function where no-one was regarding her coolly or judging her motives and her character simply on the basis of her marriage.

 

‘Good night, Mr Hunt.’ Guinevere turned halfway up the stairs. Jared had come in with them, had checked on the men guarding the basement and the roof, made certain the night porter was alert, had inspected every window and door. Now he stood on the threshold with Twite holding the door open ready for him to leave. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

She looked tired and the glow of excitement and happiness that had clung to her throughout the evening had ebbed away by the time he had climbed down from his hackney carriage and followed the couple into the house. Her chin was up though, her back straight, and perversely that made him want to turn back and take her in his arms and comfort her even more than a trembling lip or threatening tears would have done. Not mine to comfort, not mine to hold.

‘My pleasure, Lady Northam. Good night.’

But it was not a pleasure, Jared thought as he went down the steps and began to walk home. It was frustrating, like chasing a thread of smoke. He could glimpse it, smell it but could not catch hold of it and he had no idea what had caused the fire that generated it in the first place. He was not even certain, when he did find it, whether the fire would prove to be a raging inferno or a smouldering twig.

Guinevere did not help. Not in the slightest. She was clouding his judgment, making him second-guess every conclusion, every decision, because she was a married woman, his client’s wife, the person he was supposed to be protecting – and he wanted her.

It was only dishonourable if he acted on that desire, he told himself as he strode along the empty streets, all his senses, and all of him that was not thinking, attuned to the smells and sounds around him, the feel of the place. He was not being followed and, although there were shadowy figures lurking in every darkened corner, they were on the look-out for easy prey, not for him. A pity, he would have almost welcomed a fight tonight.

There was the glimmer of light behind the shutters of the upstairs windows when he reached Great Ryder Street. Dover, it seemed had taken up residence early. Even so, Jared eased the key in the lock gently, then secured it behind him with barely a click. The new bolts slid silently into place and he padded through the rest of the ground floor checking widows and the back door. From above his head he heard the sound of footsteps on the bare boards, the clang of what sounded like a saucepan.

He climbed the stairs, a thin blade in his hand, missed out the fourth from the top with its deliberate loud creak and swung open the door, entering fast, poised on the balls of his feet. Behind the door.

Dover stepped out, lowering the carving knife he held as he did so. ‘Good evening, sir. They said I could leave at once, so I came as soon as I could.’ With his bland expression and his calm voice he was almost a parody of the ideal servant. Although he was having to work to control his breathing, Jared noticed. He had given his new manservant a scare, however well he hid it.

‘Good morning, I believe.’ Distantly he heard the clock on St James’s Palace strike two. ‘Very good.’ Worryingly good, in fact, scare or not. ‘An excellent reception. How did you hear me?’

‘I didn’t, sir.’ Dover went through to the little kitchen. ‘I had left the door at the top of the stairs ajar and it swung a little when you opened the street door and I felt the draft. So I closed it, just in case it was not you. Would you like some cold beef and bread, sir? There’s the ale, or I can make tea or coffee. There doesn’t seem to be any chocolate. I will go shopping in the morning.’

‘We will make a list. We’ll have whatever’s left in the larder now, together. How long have you been here?’ He looked around at swept floors, surfaces that had been dusted. Through the open kitchen door the old range looked as though someone had attacked it with a scouring brush.

‘Since just before the builders left, sir. I’ve done the best I can, but there are a lot of things missing, like flat irons and a mattress for your bed.’

‘Go round to the Duke of Calderbrook’s house when you’ve shopped for food and see Flynn. Tell him what else you think we need and ask him where to get it from.

‘You found the box bed in the cupboard in the little chamber? That’s your room and you will need a mattress for that, I’ll need one for my bed, as you said – Gillows, I imagine will be best for those. Here.’ He took several of his cards from his pocket and tossed them on the table along with some money. ‘That’s a start on housekeeping. Buy a ledger and keep track of what you are spending and open shop accounts for the big things. If you need any advice, ask Flynn. All right? I’m rather tied up at the moment, but we will get some more furniture soon. Oh, and you do not have to keep calling me sir when we’re alone.’

‘Yes, sir. I mean, yes, it is all clear. I could go round to the auction room as well, see if there are things there that we need for the kitchen and my room.’ He went through to the kitchen and Jared heard him making up the fire.

‘As you like,’ he said. ‘I have an account at Christie’s already, so just show them my card. I want comfortable and practical up here, Dover, not fashionable or smart.’ He was saving his money for the public areas downstairs where only the best would do to attract the class of client he wanted – and then to make them feel at home when he had them.

They ate, Dover answering questions about his childhood in rural Kent with his widowed mother and three sisters and his training, which seemed to have been thorough until the new butler arrived and favoured his own kin over him. One of the grooms had been an ex-soldier with a liking for swordplay who had taught him the rudiments and left him wanting to learn more.

Finally they snuffed the candles and went to their rooms. Jared rolled himself up in a blanket on top of the stretched ropes of the big bedstead, leaving Dover to make himself a nest in the box bed.

Six o’clock in the morning would be plenty early enough to wake. Lord and Lady Northam would not be stirring much before eleven after such a late night. Jared punched the pillow and told himself to go to sleep. He could chase that elusive drift of smoke in his dreams.