Morgan turned toward Philomena as she took her final breath before stepping through the front doors of Wardington's London residence. He'd wanted to speak during their walk, knowing each and every moment was precious, but when he'd seen the small smile she worked to hide, he knew their time was better spent in silence.

Besides, her need to ignore him had given him the chance to truly look her over and though she didn't know it, by her closing her eyes as they walked, she'd admitted, if only unconsciously, that she trusted him on some level. She trusted him not to lead her into a tree or her slipper-clad feet into a large rock. He'd been able to see the tiny blue veins in her lids and knew her skin was soft even if he'd only touched her with gloves.

Beauty alone meant she was more than he'd hoped for. He was sure his mother would have picked a woman that frowned more than she smiled, but there was nothing about Philomena that reminded him of his mother. She was a breath of fresh air from the images he'd tortured himself with when he'd been in America, dreading the moment he'd have to meet his future wife.

It was yet another reason he clung to her; if he lost her, he had no idea who the second woman his mother might choose would be.

The O.S.S. had done their research on Philomena Housley and their spies had said she was nearly angelic and nothing like her uncle, but that had only made them put their guards up where she was concerned. She was a conundrum. An oddity. They still didn't know how she fit into Creed's plans, and while Morgan was starting to believe that she was innocent, her connection to Creed made her someone who needed to be watched. There wasn't a man in London who had a beautiful woman as a ward and didn't have plans for her.

They would eventually have to speak about her uncle again, but for the moment, he liked her the way she was—at peace.

They were shown down a gallery and a footman knocked on Wardington's office door before stepping inside.

Morgan came to a halt when he noticed the boy sitting at Wardington's desk.

Bradley Dawnton, the Earl of Danbrook, and the third heir to the Wardington title, sat with a pen in his hand but looked up when Morgan came into the room. His twelve-year-old green eyes seemed to be full of a knowledge far past his age. The boy had always been that way in Morgan's opinion. A well-organized lad who only proved to still be a child when he allowed his feelings to get the better of him.

The boy's gaze moved from Morgan to Philomena, and his forest-green eyes took on the shade of summer grass, glowing from within.

Philomena broke from Morgan's hold and all but skipped to Bradley's side. "Lord Danbrook. It is so good to see you." She kissed the boy on the cheek and not even Bradley could stop the blush that rushed to his cheeks. Morgan was envious of the open affection his fiancée gave the child when all he'd gotten was fear and cool reserve.

As he deserved, he recalled. He'd been upset with his mother and he'd taken it out on Philomena. He'd not even been thinking clearly. If he had, even knowing she was Creed's ward, he'd have been calmer, more watchful, and used her to gather information.

Instead, he'd acted the tyrant.

"Lady Philomena." Bradley took her hand, bowed his hard head over it, and kissed her fingers while holding her eyes. The charmer.

Philomena laughed just as she'd done with his secretary.

That was two men she'd laughed with that weren't him. He had his work cut out for him.

He watched the two interact and it became clear that they knew one another. Morgan wasn't sure that was a good thing. "When did you two meet?" he asked.

"Last summer." Philomena turned to him, still grinning. He knew that smile had nothing to do with him, but he took it nonetheless, indulging himself with the illusion that she favored him at all. "Lady Abigail is one of the women who come to my luncheons at the hotel."

Morgan had to school his features from showing his surprise. Why would Wardington allow his wife to get close to Philomena, knowing she was connected with Creed?

"Have you something for me, Lord Durham?" Bradley asked.

Morgan hesitated. "I have something for your grandfather." But how Bradley knew that at all surprised him. He'd been aware that Wardington was training his grandson to one day be him, but there was still Bradley's father, who would take the title in between.

But Wardington's son, the Marquess of Clariant, was not like his father. He was not sneaky or bent on ruling an empire, but there was something about young Bradley that made Morgan believe that perhaps the boy was, in fact, Wardington's true heir, or rather, an heir who had nothing to do with the power of the title and everything to do with the power of the man.

Morgan hoped to be long dead before Bradley took the title and prayed for the generations to come. He walked over to Bradley, who had his hand outstretched, and placed the letter in the boy's hands.

Bradley walked over to the small fire that burned in the corner of the room and threw the letter into it.

Morgan stilled. "That was for your grandfather."

"No." Bradley turned to him. "That was written by my grandfather and since he is not senile, he has no need to look over his own words." The boy smiled and already Morgan could see the Dawnton features coming in. There would be no awkward stage for the boy. He'd go from a handsome lad to a handsome man and may the Lord have mercy on the female half of the ton. "You may stay around to speak with my grandfather if you wish."

Philomena looked between the two with open curiosity.

"Thank you. I believe I will," Morgan said.

"Will what?" Wardington stepped into the room, his fist wrapped tightly around the golden lion's head of his cane. Morgan recalled that the cane hid a gun and took a step back as the duke strolled to the desk. Bradley moved the chair for his grandfather and the older man took it with great care and sighed once it was in it. Then those authoritative green eyes swept the room before landing on Philomena. He smiled. "Lady Philomena. It's always a pleasure to see you."

Philomena curtsied. "Your Grace. It’s a pleasure to see you as well. How is your leg?"

"Better. I've adhered to your advice on the vinegar. It's a ghastly thing to drink, but the benefits outweigh the taste."

"Excellent." She clapped. "I told you it would work. My teacher in Hanover drank it every morning."

The conversation startled Morgan because people did not ask a duke about his body unless they knew them and since she was not family, Morgan could only wonder at their connection. Also, it was peculiar to discover that Wardington would allow a stranger to know his weakness.

Morgan cut in as the conversation moved on to the rest of the family with everyone's smiles growing by the second. Surely, not so much had changed in London since he'd left. "You know my fiancée?" he asked Wardington.

The duke turned to Morgan. "Oh, yes. Lady Philomena has come to dinner on a few occasions. Abigail and I find her delightful."

Philomena laughed. "Wardington, you are too kind."

Wardington? Kind? To the ward of Creed? A man who'd threatened Wardington's actual relatives? Morgan wasn't sure where he was anymore. He'd brought Philomena because he'd had no other choice and had thought her engagement with him would keep her protected from Wardington's wrath. Yet it seemed that Philomena needed no protection. For instead of inviting the woman to a room in his dungeon, he'd had her sit at his table.

"You're a very lucky man," Wardington told him and, smiling with his eyes, he added, "Although, who needs luck when you have the power of friendship?" He laughed.

Bradley and Philomena laughed as well.

Morgan did not, because he'd heard the message clearly in Wardington's statement.

He was engaged to Philomena because of the man who sat before him. Philomena had not been his mother's idea, but Wardington's. How the duke had arranged it and what other people he'd used to guide his mother's mind, Morgan didn't know, but that didn't make him blind to the truth.

"Can I speak with you alone, Your Grace?" Morgan asked.

Wardington, since making his last comment, had been holding his gaze. He nodded and turned to Bradley. "Take Philomena to see the gardens. The cow parsley has returned."

Philomena gasped and took Bradley's arm before leaving the room. She didn't even look at Morgan as she left.

Morgan closed the door behind them and said, "Bradley burned the letter."

"Good." Wardington’s gaze remained sharp. "Is that all?"

Morgan pressed his lips together and crossed the room before dropping into a chair. "What did it say?"

Wardington lifted his brow. "You didn't read it?"

"You sealed it."

"You let a seal stop you?" The duke chuckled. "You're a spy. I'm sure you could have managed to seal the paper back together and found a way to have my seal etched on it once more without me being none the wiser."

Of course, he could have and if need be, he could have written the letter over himself. All it would have taken was a few nights of practice and between the fact that he'd have had months to work at it and his brother now owned a paper mill, there had been nothing to stop him but his conscious.

"It wouldn't have been right," Morgan said.

The duke smiled. "That's why I like you, Morgan. You do what's right. It's also why I've given you the gift of Philomena."

Morgan didn't take offense that the duke called him by his name since it had been done with favor. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the Duke of Wardington. He was sure that never before had a man such as he existed and wondered if one ever would again. "How?"

Wardington mimicked his position and crossed his arms. "How what?"

Morgan lifted his hands. "How... everything? My brother? My mother?" He leaned forward. "Why Philomena?"

Wardington frowned as though the answer was clear. "Creed’s going to use her and in the process, he might break her. Did you see that lovely woman who was in here a moment ago? She needs protecting and what better protector than a Second Son?"

Morgan blinked and fell back into the chair again. If Wardington believed Philomena an innocent, then Morgan had no doubts that it was true. Wardington knew everything. Morgan was sure that Wardington, at any point in time, could bring down Creed himself, but why the duke didn't was a mystery. He had to ask. "Why?"

"Why did I choose you to protect Philomena?"

"No," Morgan said. "Why the game? Why not just stop Creed?"

Wardington shook his head. "I don't need that glory."

Morgan scoffed. "You live for glory."

"Yes, but I don't want the throne. There have already been whispers about me coveting it."

That was true. Morgan himself had said Wardington had the power to rule the kingdom, but he'd never thought... "Do you have the supporters?" Morgan asked.

Wardington’s expression went flat. "The supporters, the debts, the power, and the blood. Every powerful house in England pays tribute to me in some way or another and though it doesn't matter, I'm somewhere in line for the throne. My father was the cousin to King George III and there are those who don't wish to see Victoria as queen. You know this."

Why Morgan hadn't pieced all of this together before surprised him, but it was true. Creed had joined a secret society a few years ago with other powerful men who'd thought Victoria the end of England's power. But with a man like Wardington in charge, even as old as he was, no one would question his authority "So, what do you want?"

"Protect the girl," Wardington said. "Protect the Crown. See that Victoria lives to see her coronation."

Morgan nodded in the understanding of his duty but then cursed. "Philomena hates me."

The look of contempt that covered Wardington's face made Morgan squirm. "What did you do?"

Morgan relayed the story, holding nothing back. There was no point. Since Wardington was also known as Cupid, he was Morgan's greatest hope of winning Philomena's hand in less than forty-eight hours. If he'd had a month, Morgan was sure he'd have had Philomena singing down the aisle. Even a week might have worked, but fear was a hard thing to break in a matter of days.

When he was done, Wardington said, "She fears you?"

"Yes."

"Then show her yours."

Morgan frowned. "Show her my fears?"

Wardington nodded. "It's only fair. You know hers." He laughed.

Morgan didn't join in, but as he thought about what the duke said, it made sense. He stood and bowed. "Thank you, Your Grace... What do I owe you for your words of wisdom?" He knew there would be a debt.

Wardington proved him right. "I give your debt to my grandson. One day, when he's the duke, he'll need help. There will be those who are envious of him. There are those who will think my title weak because I am gone. My son Andrew has already established himself as a leader in his own right, but I will not be around to guide Bradley... at least not with the everyday problems. Still, I have faith in him. I am not asking you to guide him. You will simply ensure his enemies think twice." His gaze was hard. "Swear this to me."

Morgan nodded. "I swear." Though he wondered what Wardington meant by not being around to guide Bradley with everyday problems. Did the duke still plan to have any sort of control once he was gone? Morgan wouldn’t be surprised. “I’ll protect Bradley.”

"Good." His expression relaxed. "Now, you've a fiancée to win over, don't you?"

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