“No.”

Miss Mirren might as well have thrown her tea in Blackstone’s face. Her refusal left him blinking and speechless.

No was not an option. He tamped down his shock. There she sat, in her small but cheerful parlor, looking calmer than he thought she had a right to be under the circumstances. As if she refused these sorts of suits all the time.

It was maddening. But he needed to remember who he was dealing with. A bluestocking. An intellectual. All right. So she needed to be reasoned with. Why had he expected anything less?

Because a fortnight ago, she kissed you in the water like a woman who might actually want to marry you.

He rose from the settee and strode to the window, gazing at the street for a moment—mustering a new offense—before returning his attention to her. “Miss Mirren, if you think about what I’m actually proposing, you’ll find—”

“You do me a great honor by asking, of course,” she interrupted, her voice unnaturally loud. It sounded like she was reciting her times tables. The crease between her eyebrows deepened, and he followed her gaze down to her hands, which were clasped in a death grip. “It’s just that I don’t plan to marry at all.”

“You don’t plan to marry,” he echoed, registering the fact that dumbly repeating what she said didn’t make for much of an offense. “May I ask why?”

“I value my freedom too much.”

“I wouldn’t impede you. You could settle at Clareford Manor, and I’d be in town most of the time anyway.” Her patient expression, reminiscent of a governess waiting for her pupil to finish saying something foolish, told him he was getting nowhere. Blast the obstinate woman! “We wouldn’t have to, ah, live together as man and wife.”

He refrained from saying that the abstention would be more of a sacrifice than she could ever imagine.

“You wouldn’t want that?”

Of course he wanted that. He wasn’t a saint.

He’d hoped his response to their moonlit swim had been an aberration, an atypical reaction to their closeness as she helped him chase away his demons. The two weeks that had elapsed since the house party disbanded had given him ample time to analyze the situation. She was like a fellow soldier. They faced a common enemy and that had inspired the intense feelings of camaraderie typical of such circumstances. And of course she was a beautiful woman, so the form that it had taken had been sexual attraction. It was all very logical.

He’d been dismayed, then, by his very illogical response when Miss Mirren herself answered his knock. There she stood in an unremarkable and slightly worn blue dress, surprise etched onto her lovely face. After he finished thinking that this was another reason to marry her—she wouldn’t have to answer her own door in his house—he felt the telltale spike of lust her plump mouth always seemed to inspire. Worse, now that he knew what that mouth tasted like, he feared he would never stop thinking about it.

But his irrational appetites didn’t signify. When a man proposed to a woman to ruthlessly further his own political aims, he gave up the right to a real marriage. He would just have to take a cold bath every evening.

But first she had to say yes.

“This is about my father, isn’t it?” The accusation—he felt it like a blow to the chest—took the air out of the speech he’d been composing in his head.

“You’re proposing out of duty,” she continued, her voice rising and color beginning to paint her cheeks. “At least be honest about it. You’re asking out of some misplaced sense of responsibility.”

“I’m not sure it’s misplaced,” he said guardedly. He had been loyal to her father. He still was. He couldn’t tell her his true motivation was to get her out of the goddamned way of his mission. But perhaps there was a case to be made for duty. People married for much less compelling reasons every day. A marriage between them would be a way to honor her father. Perhaps she could be worn down using this line of argument.

“This is the part, Lord Blackstone, where you rush to assure me that your proposal is based solely on your regard for me and has nothing to do with my father.”

Or perhaps not.

He didn’t know what to say. An unpleasant sensation, because he always knew what to say to a target.

His silence, unintentional though it was, must have answered for him, because she stood and pulled the bell. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because as I explained, I do not intend to marry.”

“But you can’t just live here by yourself!” Irritation spilled over in his tone.

“I don’t live by myself. I live with my grandmother.” She spoke as if she were talking to a child, and his irritation ratcheted up into something approaching ire.

“So I’ve heard,” he said, matching her cold, superior tone. “I have yet to meet the lady.”

She shot him a disdainful look. When a maid appeared, she said, “Please ask Sally to bring Grandmama down.” She turned back toward him. “You’ll stay for another cup of tea.”

He noticed it wasn’t a question, but nodded, thinking back to the way Mr. Manning greeted Miss Mirren back at Clareford Manor. “How is Sally?” At least one mystery would finally be resolved.

“Have you a footman?” he asked while they waited.

She poured his tea, her movements jerky. “No.”

“Why didn’t a maid answer the door, then?”

The spoon she used to vigorously stir cream into his tea clanged repeatedly against the china cup. “I’ve only the one, and she was busy bathing Grandmama.”

He reached his hand out, intending to still the movement of hers, but before he made contact with her skin, she stopped her frenzied stirring and handed him his cup. The disappointment he felt at the missed opportunity to touch her was not helpful, so he shoved it aside. “So you live here with your grandmother, a maid-of-all-work, and someone named Sally.”

Suddenly, incongruously, she smiled. “I’m am thinking of hiring a lady’s maid. I’ve recently met one I think would suit.”

He resisted pointing out that her statement had nothing to do with anything.

“Mrs. Burnham and I have become friends,” she continued. “She’s been very kind to me. I shall be going about in society with her, so I’ll have need of a dedicated maid. Molly can’t manage to do a thing with my hair.”

She was trying to put him off the topic with this discussion of society and hairdressing. “Allow me to amend my previous statement. Assuming you retain a lady’s maid, you will live here with two maids, your grandmother, and a mystery woman named Sally.”

“You, of course, will address Sally as Mrs. Smith, but that is correct.” The icy bluestocking was back.

Dear God, the woman was impossible. His jaw tightened. “No footman. No man at all.”

“I don’t like my household to be too…full. Mind you, a boy comes in the mornings with firewood. He runs errands for us, too.”

His skin prickled. He thought about that horrible scar. Anyone with a grudge could infiltrate her unguarded henhouse. “Your grandmother’s household, you mean. You don’t like your grandmother’s household to be too full.”

“That’s right,” she agreed coolly, looking daggers at him.

Her obstinacy was enough to unhinge a man. He sipped his tea, smiling blandly to mask the frustration that was threatening to choke him, and wondered where she attended church, doing the math as to how soon the banns could be called. Though it would probably be simpler to just obtain a special license. Either way, the infernal woman was marrying him, whether she liked it or not.

The arrival of Emily’s grandmother forced him to check his angry thoughts. Old and stooped, she had a shock of white hair that, like her granddaughter’s, was not very well confined in a topknot. She shuffled slowly, leaning on the arm of a tall African woman.

“Grandmama, Mrs. Smith, may I present the Earl of Blackstone? Lord Blackstone, Mrs. Smith is my grandmother’s companion.”

Mrs. Smith curtsied. Grandmama ignored him and mumbled something to herself that he couldn’t quite hear. Miss Mirren herded them toward the settee and poured tea, passing cups to both ladies with smiles of affection.

He schooled his features to mask his surprise. It wasn’t unheard of to employ black domestic servants—in fact, it was downright fashionable in some circles. But thinking back to Mr. Manning’s knowledge of Mrs. Smith—and the fact that he owned an enormous sugar plantation in Jamaica—he suspected Mrs. Smith was not a free woman. But how did she come here? And why would Miss Mirren, crusading abolitionist, hold a slave?

So many questions, but none could be asked outright. He shot one more raised-eyebrow look at Miss Mirren before smiling at the others. “How are you ladies finding London? It’s been, what, six months since you removed here from Somerset?”

“Grandmama has always been here, of course,” said Miss Mirren, “but Mrs. Smith and I are enjoying the city very much.”

“It’s not the right season for violets, dear,” Emily’s grandmother said, directing the comment to no one in particular.

Mrs. Smith patted the old woman’s hand, and Miss Mirren smiled at Blackstone with artificial brightness.

“It’s better to use the plot to grow vegetables, anyway. Then we can put them up.” Grandmama looked directly at him, and he saw a resemblance in the shape of her lined, pale lips to Miss Mirren’s vibrant, pink ones. “You’ll thank me, Andy, when you’ve eaten your hundredth potato next winter.”

“Hush, dearest!” said Miss Mirren, sotto voce.

So, Grandmama was off her rocker. Yes—special license. He would be marrying Emily Mirren, and as quickly as possible. And not only to protect his mission. “You hail from Somerset, too, Mrs. Smith?” he inquired mildly.

“Yes, though via Jamaica,” she said, seeming to enjoy the prospect of shocking him. “And Africa before that, of course.”

“Mrs. Smith,” Miss Mirren practically hissed, “I’m sure Lord Blackstone isn’t interested in the details of our domestic situation.”

He reached for a scone. “On the contrary, I find myself fascinated.”

“I’m a free woman, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Yes, I told him you were Grandmama’s companion!” Miss Mirren said, somewhat shrilly. She turned to him. “Mrs. Smith, quite understandably, does not care to mistaken for a slave.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Grandmama stood suddenly, with a vigor he wouldn’t have expected, given the way she shuffled into the room earlier. “No, I will not dance with you! I’ve told you a hundred times!”

He shot a look at Miss Mirren, who appeared stricken. “I’m so glad to know that you’re tucked away here under the adept chaperonage of your grandmother. I’m sure it’s what your father would have wanted.”

She didn’t break eye contact with him as she addressed Mrs. Smith. “Would you be so kind as to take Grandmama to her chamber for a rest?”

All right. They were having a stare-down. He broke with her gaze only for a moment to make his good-byes to the older ladies. When the door had shut behind them, he turned right back to her.

“What?” she said.

“Would you care to enlighten me as to the details of your, as you called it, ‘domestic situation?’”

“No, thank you.”

“Allow me to rephrase that. You will now enlighten me as to the details of your domestic situation, or I will speak to Mr. Manning.” He was being unnecessarily cruel, invoking her former guardian, but he wanted to test her reaction. “I’m sure when he agreed for you to move to London, he had no idea your grandmother was out of her head.”

“Yes, and Mr. Manning is your intimate friend, now, isn’t he?” she practically spat.

When he didn’t answer, she sighed and slumped against the settee. A twinge of guilt at having been the cause of such defeat deflated his anger. But it was not enough to make him back down.

Weary eyes rose to meet his. “Mrs. Smith was Mrs. Talbot’s girlhood nursemaid. She was a slave, of course. You’ve guessed as much.” He nodded. “Mr. Manning brought her over from his plantation in Jamaica.” The hitch in her voice was a little jab in his chest, but he didn’t dare offer anything other than a mild countenance. “Sally was kind to me. She was the closest thing I ever had to a mother.”

“It was good of Mr. Manning to allow her to come here with you.” In truth, he was a little surprised. Letting go of something that was his didn’t seem Manning’s style.

The tears disappeared, and her eyes darkened. “I bought her.”

“Excuse me?” That, he had not expected.

“He didn’t let her go. I simply offered him twice the going rate for a human being”—he noted the pointed sarcasm in her tone—“and being the man of business that he is, he agreed. She was getting old anyway and, as he said, there are plenty more on his plantation.”

“Yes, but now that the trade is illegal, the supply isn’t unlimited. The planters in the Indies haven’t access to African markets anymore.”

“Surely you are not so naive to think that a simple matter of illegality is enough to deter those who traffic in human beings?” she said sharply.

Of course he was not. Having looked into Manning’s business in Bristol, he knew as well as she did that one of the man’s ships was employed illegally slaving. And there were plenty more like him willing to run the risk. If they saw a Royal Navy vessel approaching, they merely dumped their human cargo overboard. He shared her revulsion. It was reprehensible.

“Where did you get the money?” He already knew Miss Mirren was brave and intelligent. But apparently he had only begun to scratch the surface.

“My father left me his fortune. Though not large, it was adequate to both sustain me and to purchase Sally’s freedom. Mr. Manning was my guardian, but the fortune was to come to me when I attained my majority. I merely had to wait for it. When I turned twenty-one, I could control my money, and he could no longer control me.”

“But you’re twenty-three now, are you not, and only come to town a few months ago? If your father’s money came to you age twenty-one, why did you wait?”

She stared at him with an expression he couldn’t quite unlock. “I waited until Mrs. Talbot—then Miss Manning—married Mr. Talbot. That happened six months ago, and then I came here.”

Ah. She’d been biding her time, waiting until her friend was married off before she unleashed her revenge on Manning. He felt a surge of admiration. In another life, she would have made an excellent spy. Most people couldn’t see the long game, and they jumped too fast. Miss Mirren, it seemed, was capable of scheming, of waiting for the right moment. Which meant she was likely to succeed.

And that, he reminded himself, was unacceptable.

“Mr. Manning didn’t want me to leave,” she went on, seeming to warm to her tale. “Neither did my father’s solicitor. But when pressed, he informed me that my reading of the will was correct. I was no longer required to stay with the Mannings after I turned twenty-one. Grandmama was getting so she could no longer live alone, and her companion at the time was also elderly. As a child, I’d always wanted to live with her instead of the Mannings, but my father thought it better that I remain in Somerset. She was my mother’s mother, and he and she had never had a warm relationship. I’d kept up a correspondence with her all these years, and Grandmama’s letters had been getting a little…”

“Dotty?”

The pursing of her lips was simultaneously an affirmation and a sanction. “I sold the Somerset House, and here we are.”

There was so much to say—scoldings and reprimands and questions. So many questions. But he knew that wasn’t the way to win with her.

He rose, pulling his gaze from her lips with slightly more effort than he would have liked. “Thank you for the tea.”

She rose, too, looking suddenly very tired. All the fight had left her.

“Will you attend the Hollingberry ball?” he asked, his mind casting around for his next move. “I ask because I know Mrs. Burnham will be there, and you’ve led me to believe that the two of you have become rather cozy.”

She nodded.

He had not expected her refusal today, but he was accustomed to dealing with unforeseen complications. The Miss Mirren mission was simply going to require a trifle more strategy than he’d anticipated.

He smiled as he made his bow. How satisfying to think that soon he’d have his enemy and Miss Mirren in hand. The idea of marriage had not come from a noble place—he wouldn’t lie to himself. He needed her out of the way so he could crush Le Cafard under his heel. But today’s visit had made it clear that their marriage would also have a happy side effect. It would put an end to all her foolhardy, dangerous schemes. Buying slaves from evil men, running a household full of crazy women and female servants, swimming nearly naked with reprobate spies—it would all end. The protection of the Blackstone name was just what she needed, whether she realized it or not. Perhaps the cursed lineage would finally be good for something after all. That he would be required to live in proximity to her and not touch her? It was just the penance he deserved.

It was just as well Lord Blackstone left so suddenly, Emily thought as she collected her reticule and donned her spencer, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She would have to hurry if she was going to make it to St. Dunstan’s before three of the clock.

Before she could slip out of the house, Sally appeared in the foyer. “Why don’t you let me go today? Or why don’t you leave it for a day?”

She suppressed a sigh. Her mind was still reeling from the encounter with Lord Blackstone, and she was looking forward to making her daily journey alone. “You know I can’t just not go! You’ve seen the advertisement! What if today’s the day he appears?”

Sally placed her hand on Emily’s arm. “You know no one prays for Billy’s return more than I.”

Emily resisted the unkind urge to shake Sally’s hand off. Sally, of all people, should understand. “He was like a brother to me.”

“He was a son to me.” There was rebuke in the older woman’s tone.

Chastened, Emily grabbed Sally’s hand and squeezed. “I know. And I promise I will find him. One day, he will be there.”

“It is my fervent hope. But you’ve a life of your own to live in the meantime. Your earl, for instance…”

“He’s not my earl. I barely know him.”

Sally looked at her silently for a moment before saying, “Perhaps he could help us.”

“No!” She could hardly explain to Sally that Lord Blackstone was in league with Mr. Manning, providing safe haven for his smuggling boats. There was no way to put into words how inexplicably disappointed she was that a man who had seemed a kindred spirit—a man she had kissed passionately in a lake a fortnight ago—could be allied with someone so evil. Perhaps he didn’t know about the slaving—there would be no reason for him to, really. The man wasn’t spying on Mr. Manning like she was, for pity’s sake. They’d danced around the topic of illegal slaving just now, but she hadn’t outright told him that Manning engaged in the trade.

“He has a seat in the House of Lords, does he not? He can’t find Billy, but perhaps he could be counted on to—”

“No.” Emily patted the older woman’s hand. “He can’t help—trust me.” She could not explain to Sally the gentleman in question had proposed to her not an hour ago. Her heart sped up when she thought back to it, and she started to feel as overwhelmed as she had when he’d spoken those words—words that had, for a moment, kindled a wild, irrational hope in her heart. To think that someone wanted her…

But of course it was not to be. It was all about her father. Loyalty and duty—like any good soldier. Can’t have the holy Captain Mirren’s daughter on the shelf now, can we?

More importantly, she simply could not allow a passing attraction make her forget what marriage was. Remember Mrs. Manning.

“I must go.” Not waiting for the inevitable argument, she kissed the familiar and beloved cheek. Keeping her eyes averted so she wouldn’t see the concern in the older woman’s eyes, she forced her mind back to happier times. Reading with Billy in the giant willow tree. Fishing in the stream and building up a fire while he gutted their catches—nothing had ever tasted as good as those fish. Those days before Manning had put Billy relentlessly to work were some of the best she’d ever had. Missing him was a palpable, visceral sensation, a hole in her gut that never healed over.

Perhaps today would be the day.

What the hell was she up to?

Blackstone handed his hat and gloves to Stanway and headed directly for the library. A man who’d had an offer of marriage declined surely deserved a drink. Or five.

“Stan, get me back issues of the London Weekly Comment. I need every paper that contains a column by a Mr. Edward Markham.”

Manning was her target. But all she had to do was print one of those dratted columns suggesting the man was a slaver and the rest would take care of itself. What more did she want?

He sloshed several fingers of brandy into a glass and tossed it back a single gulp.

And what the hell had she been doing standing in Fleet Street just now?

The woman had been laughably easy to follow. He hadn’t even been planning to tail her, had just been across from her house, reeling a bit, truth be told, from her refusal. So he’d seized the opportunity she handed him when she appeared outside dressed in a cloak and bonnet. Hailing a hack to follow hers had posed no problem, and once they arrived in Fleet Street it had been simple enough to conceal himself in a doorway and watch her…stand there? For well near an hour.

“Damn!” He slammed the tumbler down and poured another drink. Though her anonymous agitating in the London Weekly Comment worried him, the fact that she had spent an hour simply standing alone among the notorious pickpockets of St. Dunstan’s enraged him. Yes, the place was a tourist attraction, thanks to the wooden giants who struck the bells every quarter hour, but she’d been in London long enough that such wonders should have lost their luster. Hell, she hadn’t even glanced at the automata as the rest of the crowd cooed. Meanwhile, she made a prime target for the unsavory types who frequented the area.

And, if her campaign against Manning wasn’t just limited to snooping through the man’s things and trying to bait him with questions, if she was out in the world doing…whatever it was she was doing, she might be closer to victory than he’d thought. Manning’s smuggling boats could not be interfered with. Le Cafard was not getting away this time, and certainly not because of Captain Mirren’s daughter’s scheming.

“Fuck!” he exploded, pounding the desk with his fist. He was rewarded by the sound of glass shattering as his drink hit the parquet.

All right, that was quite enough. He was acting like a willful boy. It was time to be rational. He’d long since learned that letting one’s emotions run wild was not the way to succeed with a mission.

After pulling the bell, he moved to his chair by the fire. The library in his London house was set up exactly the way he liked it, allowing him to retreat into routine. Soon, a maid would come and clean up the mess. He would sit and stare into the fire and rearrange the items on his lists until the usual mixture of nightmares and broken sleep came.

And tomorrow he would meet Bailey, who was even now gaming with Mr. Manning. Blackstone had begged off, pleading an unbreakable engagement. An unbreakable engagement to have a proposal thrown back in his face.

Gradually, his pulse returned to normal. With any luck, tomorrow Bailey would have news they could use. He inhaled deeply, resisting the pull of his ghosts.

1. Answer the questions Richton sent in response to his report. Will probably have to make a visit to Whitehall in person.
2. Have Bailey press Manning about when the first boat will arrive.
3. Read every single one of those damned Edward Markham columns.
4. Miss Mirren. It would be good to see her married. Mr. Leighton, though he’d seemed a prospect, is probably too dull for a lady like her.
5. Speak to Bailey about other prospects for Miss Mirren.
6. No, speak to Catharine about other prospects for Miss Mirren.
7. Marry Miss Mirren.

His arm was on fire. He tried to focus on his surroundings, but his attention kept returning to the all-consuming pain from his right shoulder straight down to the tips of his fingers.

A figure sitting on a chair next to his bed resolved itself, but he could not make out enough to identify the visitor.

“Woodley?”

“Who is it?”

“Richton.”

Struggling to make sense of the name, his mind conjured a stooped, elderly aristocrat he’d met a handful of times. “The duke?”

“Yes.” The man moved his chair closer and struck a match. A candle flickered to life. “What do you remember?”

“About the battle?”

The duke nodded.

Eric closed his eyes. It was all there, just below the surface. “I remember everything.”

There was a long silence. “Is Bailey dead?” A part of him wondered why he expected Richton would know the answer, given that the aristocrat wasn’t a military man.

“No. But it was a bad one. You and Mr. Bailey and a handful of others are the only survivors from your company.”

“I can’t move my arm.” He tried to twist enough to see the source of his pain.

“The surgeon said that might happen. He hopes the effect is temporary.”

“Surgeon?”

The visitor stared at him with pitiless eyes. “He had to amputate your hand.”

“But I can feel it.”

The duke shrugged. “Nevertheless, it is no longer there.”

Writhing to try to see, Eric gasped when a bolt of excruciating pain shot through his arm.

“You have been heavily dosed with laudanum. I imagine you’ve quite the headache.”

His head did hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his arm, which was both searing and constant. “I want to see my arm.”

“That would serve no purpose.”

“I want to see my arm,” he said again.

After staring at him for a moment, the duke said, “Very well.” He helped Eric to a seated position and unwrapped the bandage that obscured the limb. Though Eric had steeled himself, the sight of his mangled flesh, of the still-bloody stump, shocked him to his core. He could feel the distinct sensation of wiggling his fingers through the pain.

And yet there was nothing.

He turned his face to the wall. After a long moment, he asked the obvious question. “Why are you here?”

“I want to know what your plans are.”

Eric’s laugh sounded bitter to his own ears. “My plans? You sound as if you’re asking which ball I’ll attend this evening.”

“I have my reasons for asking.”

The old man had an air of authority about him and, for some reason, Eric trusted him. “I suppose I plan to will this”—he nodded toward his arm—“back into service as much as possible. Then I plan to go out and get as foxed as possible.”

“Will you go home?”

“To Clareford Manor? No. My brother is the head of the family—such as it is—now. Clareford is no longer my home.”

The duke nodded. “I thought as much. Without the army, you think you have nothing.”

Of all the arrogant, presumptuous things to say. He didn’t bother trying to conceal the hatred that must be visible on his face. And yet what the duke said was true.

“That’s why I’m here,” Richton said softly.

“You don’t know anything about me. If you don’t drop the riddling and tell me directly what you’re doing here, you can just sod off.” As an afterthought, he added a sneering, “Your Grace.”

“I run an intelligence operation that seeks to defeat Napoleon.” The duke paused, letting that sink in before adding, “And I want you to join me.”

Eric remained silent. He should have been surprised by this revelation, but he found he was not. He thought back to a promise made a few weeks ago. “End this war,” the captain had said.

“Now it’s time for you to speak, my friend.”

“Who gives you the authority?”

“I was asked by Wellesley himself.” Eric sucked in a breath. “Indeed,” Richton said. “We were acquainted before the trouble began. You will appreciate that I had no choice.”

“You run a spy ring, is what you’re saying.”

Richton bowed his head. “If you like. I prefer to think of it as a small group of gentleman—though some of them aren’t gentleman—leveraging their power in service of a greater goal.”

“Why me?”

“I need help. I’m too old and sick to keep this up indefinitely. I need a man I can trust. Someone with nothing to lose. A man so committed to the cause that he will sacrifice everything.”

“And you think I am that man.”

“Aren’t you?

“Yes.”