“What time is it?” Hannah asked sleepily, propping herself up on one elbow to peer blearily at the clock on the mantle. “Wait! Don’t tell me.” She hid a yawn behind her hand and punched the pillows to prop herself up in bed. “Three in the morning. If one can call the dead of night morning.”

There was precious little moonlight tonight, and although she could vaguely see the outline of Blackwold sprawled in the chair next to her bed, she couldn’t make out his expression.

Not that she had to, she thought, recalling his last visit at this very quiet and very cold time of night. She shivered and adjusted her quilt a little higher, seeking its soft warmth. Although her nightgown—her very own gown this time—had suitably long sleeves and a high neck, the linen was too thin to grant her much protection from the penetrating, damp chill of her room.

“Have you remembered anything else?” Blackwold asked in a revoltingly cheerful voice for three in the morning.

She grimaced and picked up the phosphorous box on the bedside table to light the candle. It was bad enough to be awakened from a comfortable sleep without being unable to even see the person who had committed the dastardly deed.

“Here, allow me. If you go on that way, you’ll set the bed aflame.” He grabbed the box out of her hands and efficiently set to work lighting the candle next to her bed.

A golden flame slowly flickered into life, but its feeble light was hardly better than the previous darkness. The glow sharply defined his nose, cheekbones, and chin, while leaving his most important feature—his brown eyes—hidden in shadowy hollows when they weren’t completely obscured by the wayward lock of hair that persisted in falling over his brow.

“Burning to death might prove to be more restful in the long run,” Hannah commented, stifling another yawn behind her hand. She stared at him, frowning. “Why would I have remembered anything more? I told you everything the last time you forced your way into my bedroom.”

Her irritation increased when he chuckled. He pushed the thick lock of hair back from his forehead, only to have it immediately fall forward again when he shifted in his chair. “Your trip to the village, my dear Hannah. The fresh air, or sights therein, might have touched some chord.”

“Well, the only thing our walk managed to accomplish was to make me extremely tired.”

“Not too tired, I hope. After all, you did manage to have tea at the vicarage. And good old Cousin Henry drove you back.”

“It was exhausting enough, I assure you. Particularly after being ill.”

He stiffened in his chair, and tension seemed to suddenly pool in the air between them. “And now Grandmother is unwell.”

“You can’t blame me for that!” Hannah exclaimed, straightening. “I did not mean to make her—or anyone—sick.”

“No one is blaming you, Hannah,” he replied absently, his right hand brushing an unseen speck of dirt off his black evening breeches. His dark blue jacket was open, revealing a cerulean blue waistcoat with silver embroidery and buttons, and although that remained closed, his neckcloth once again hung untied around his neck and his white linen shirt was open.

Her irritation melted away as the warmth of amused tenderness welled up inside her.

She relaxed a fraction and leaned back against her pillows, a small smile curving her lips. “How is she doing?”

“Not well.” His hand brushed over his thigh once more before he let his arm fall to his side, letting the shadows hide the restless movements of his fingers. “The doctor wanted to bleed her, but she refused. She is resting, though.”

“You’re worried about her.”

The muscles in his jaw clenched briefly before he smiled. “Of course. She may be a ferocious old woman, but if she develops a high fever…”

She won’t die—she can’t. The words almost rushed out of Hannah’s mouth, but she clamped her lips shut. While the thought might be kind, the truth was, she could no more guarantee that Lady Blackwold would survive than she could make the rain go away.

“Is there anything I can do? Is anyone with her?” Hannah lifted her covers as she slid her feet out of bed.

Blackwold grabbed the covers with one hand and her ankle with the other and forced her back into bed, smoothing the quilt over her. “Yes. Mary is with her. That woman delights in having a patient to nurse. Sometimes I wonder if she doesn’t encourage illness just to give herself a new invalid to fuss over.”

Hannah laughed and pushed at his shoulder, forcing him away from the bed. His muscles felt hard under her touch. “I’m sure she doesn’t wish sickness on anyone.”

“No, though she positively revels in it when it does occur,” he replied sourly. He slumped back in his wooden chair, one arm propped up on her bedside table and the other dangling at his side. “So what did you think of our vicar?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

He reminds me of a skunk. She hid another burst of laughter behind her hand and forced a more serious, or at least calm, expression on her face. “He seemed very… meticulous.”

He snorted and flung his head back to clear the lock of hair out of his eyes. “A great comfort to our villagers in time of need,” he commented in a dry voice. “Just the sort you’d want to find next to your bed as you lay dying.”

“Yes. Well…” She glanced away awkwardly, her hands picking at the edge of the quilt.

“Miserly old dog,” he added in a soft voice. “Though I understand he recently hired a curate. Makes you wonder how he could afford the man. No doubt but that he’ll work him to death, saving all the poor souls of the parish, while rewarding him with a generous income of slightly less than fifty pounds per annum. Or less, if he can manage it. A fine religious man, our uncle Carter. His love of God is only surpassed by his venality.”

There seemed little she could say to contradict his cynical observation, particularly since she secretly believed it to be true. Though to be fair, she had no idea if the vicar was a miser or not. After all, he had given her back her trunk and even seemed reluctant to accept a monetary gift from her, although he apparently needed the funds for the repair of the church.

Perhaps there was some family incident in the past that had soured the relations between the two men. Whatever it was, Hannah had no right to interfere.

“He seemed kind,” she murmured. She glanced up, smiling. “Did you hear that my trunk was found? Now there can be no question as to my identity.”

“Indeed.” His brown eyes glinted in the candlelight, but the shadows hid the nuances of his expression, making him appear only mildly interested. “And who made this momentous discovery?”

“Your cousin, I believe. Mr. Henry Hodges.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” But a frown creased her brows as she reconsidered his question. The trunk had been at the vicar’s house, and she couldn’t precisely remember if anyone had actually claimed the responsibility for the discovery. “Or rather, I believe someone from the village may have actually found it and brought it to the vicar’s home. They are apparently preparing for an auction, or something similar, to obtain the funds to repair the church roof.”

“So the trunk was at the vicarage?”

“Well, yes. They planned to auction off the contents.” She flushed and glanced away, feeling awkward and slightly embarrassed, though she had no reason for such sensations. “I offered a small token. Of thanks.” Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

“And did Uncle Carter accept your small token?”

“No—not precisely. That is, I must present my letter of introduction and so on to the Bank of England, where my lawyer arranged to transfer a sum for my use. I’m sure it can all be arranged once we go to London.”

“I’m sure it can,” he replied dryly.

“What do you mean by that?” She straightened, her hands gripping the edges of the quilt.

He slumped back further in his chair, his legs stretching out so far that they went under the edge of her bed. “Nothing. I’m sure my uncle will be suitably grateful for whatever token amount you wish to grant him.”

Did he think she was a miser, as well? Or did he still believe she was an adventuress, out to cheat his grandmother? “That’s a despicable thing to say! Get out! I’m exhausted and extremely tired of this conversation, as well.”

He studied her, a half-smile twisting his mouth. “You don’t enjoy our little tête-à-têtes?”

“How could anyone enjoy being awakened in the middle of the night to be interrogated and insulted?”

“I’ve insulted you?” His brows rose, disappearing under his shaggy hair. “I do apologize.”

“You do not— I’ve never seen anyone less apologetic in my life.”

His grin widened. “If you consider it, you’ll realize it wasn’t you I was insulting.”

“No—it was your uncle—and me by implication. Why don’t you like your uncle?”

“He’s on the wrong side of the family.”

“Wrong side?”

“Surely, our Georgina has explained.” He chuckled. “I’m on the mad side, while dear Cousin Henry and Uncle Carter are… not.”

Hannah laughed again. Her smile degenerated into another yawn, however, and she hastily hid that behind her hand. “How trying for you. I suppose your cousin and uncle must be great friends, then.”

“Not particularly. Like repels like, or so I’ve been told.”

“But Henry was at the vicarage.”

“Yes, he was, wasn’t he?”

Hannah studied his face. Once again, he seemed almost expressionless in the flickering light. “What was he doing there?” she asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I thought it was something to do with my trunk, but truly, I don’t honestly know.”

He sighed and placed a hand flat on the bedside table to push himself up. “No. More’s the pity.”

For a moment, he stood there at the side of her bed, towering over her. She held her breath, looking up at him, wanting him to lean over, wanting to feel the warmth of his chest and strength of his arms around her. Pools of darkness hid his eyes, but he seemed to be staring at her.

Slowly, he bent, one hand clasping the bedpost. A shiver of excitement went through her. Her eyelids fluttered, and her toes curled as she lifted her chin. There was one hushed moment when he paused, his mouth mere inches from hers. The heady fragrance of his skin, combined with a spicy bay and soap scent, made her take a deep breath.

His lips brushed hers gently before he moved to press another kiss against her forehead. “Sleep well, Hannah. And if you do remember anything, I hope you will share it with me.”

“At three in the morning?”

His low chuckle whispered over his shoulder as he moved toward the door. “It is the best time for honesty, after all.”

“Only if you’re an owl.” She watched as he slipped through the door.

A soft click, a few footsteps, and the quiet returned to the house, though not to Hannah. She couldn’t forget the scent of him or the warm softness of his lips. Her body tingled with excitement, and when she tried to close her eyes and fall asleep, she couldn’t.

Her thoughts kept whirling back to Blackwold and how right it had felt when he’d pressed that light kiss on her mouth.

It wasn’t until dawn that her eyes snapped open with the thought that she’d met all the men who wore the griffin ring except one: Georgina’s father.

One of them was the man who had ordered the death of Officer Trent, and for some reason, she wanted it to be the one person she hadn’t yet met. She rolled over in bed and turned her pillow to the cool side. It would be awful if it turned out to be Georgina’s father. Too awful to contemplate.

However, something even worse kept hovering around her like a suffocating fog. She wasn’t sure, but she felt like she was on the verge—in fact, her toes were already sticking out over that line—of falling in love with a man who might be that murderer. And to make that horror even more tragic, he might even be engaged to someone else.