Charley’s heart cheered, and he came close to laughing. She was threatening to kill him, so all was not lost. He held her gaze as long as possible. “I do love you,” he said.

Lord Bakeley approached. “The coaches are ready.”

She shook her head. “I am not finished.” Her voice was far stronger than he would have expected and she drew herself up like a queen in her silver gown. The two villains turned from his father, faces taut, at what Father had been saying.

“Duque. Or shall I call you, El Tlahuelpuchi?”

The Duque barely blinked at being called a vampire, but she had struck a nerve.

She nodded to Father. “My lord.”

The two villains looked over her head.

Shaldon nodded back, his face an enigma. Their world had just collapsed, and Father looked as serenely satisfied as he had at dinner. The thought angered him.

“Pray, your Excellency, where is your dukedom?” she asked.

The Spaniard eyed her, the only sound the shuffle of dresses. The orchestra had even ceased playing.

“San Sebastiano.” The Duquesa said.

A liveried footman eased closer, and he recognized one of her guards.

His heart eased. He had used the lady, it was true, as she had used him, an interlude made more exciting for both of them by the danger. And she had risked much to pass notes and whisper secrets, including the one she had shared tonight.

“Yes.” Graciela nodded. “You are the one. San Sebastiano. Gray eyes like a frozen river. Gordo, your stomach as big as Napoleon’s. I have heard the tales.” Gracie pulled herself higher on a cord of tension.

He squeezed her hand, transmitting strength, courage, love.

She glanced at him a moment and turned back. “So clever you are, Duque. You are right that my husband is looking for a traitor. And I have the key to one.” Her lips stretched in a thin smile directed at Kingsley. “You are not so clever in naming him, however. He is not my father.”

She pulled her hand free and reached for Shaldon’s arm. “And cousin.” She spat the word out like it was poisoned. “After you embezzled my trust, beat me, and tried to force me to marry your wife’s pirate cousin, there was no question I would flee, but you might wish to ponder why I sought sanctuary with the lord who set his son to seek out a traitor.”

A red glaze was creeping over Kingsley’s face. His eyes fixed on her.

She looked up at Father. “May we go now?”

“Yes, my dear. But let Charles take you out.”

“See here,” Kingsley thundered, and reached for her.

Shaldon stepped between them, Bink backing him up.

Pushed up behind the Duque, Llewellyn looked on, and whispering in his ear was the fellow he’d met at the club: Payne-Elsdon.

Interesting, that.

To their left, the Duquesa was fleeing, flanked by her guards, her survival instincts as excellent as ever.

Charley hooked an arm around Gracie, sweeping her along, through the buzzing crowd, down the stairs, through the ranks of footmen and Shaldon’s men to the waiting coach. He spotted Llewellyn in the crowd tracking them, Elsdon following nearby. Were they together?

“Get in, love,” he said.

When she balked, he tossed her into the coach and climbed in behind her.

She was shaking, and from the thunderous look on her face, fear was only a part of it. Never mind. They would weather this storm.

“By God, you were magnificent.” In fact, she had been quite believable. The reporters would be dashing off their copy as they ran to ink the presses, speculating on the name of the traitor she’d claimed to know. “I am glad you did not pull that dagger on them.”

She stiffened.

“Yes, I knew of the dagger. And that was an excellent bluff. Kingsley will be packing his bags and fleeing to his country estate until the smoke clears.”

Her stony silence made the air inside the coach hum. Her gaze stayed on the closed window shade, as if she could see through it.

When his father climbed in to join them, surprisingly nimble, and Kincaid followed, both men looked smug and satisfied.

Charley’s anger stirred.

“Perpetua will ride with Jane,” Shaldon said. “Will you tell us what you know, Graciela?”

He bristled. “Gracie was bluffing, father.”

Her gaze dropped to the silver lace reticule she was strangling. And she bit her lip. His heart clenched and froze, and began to heat.

She hadn’t been bluffing. She’d known something all along, something she hadn’t shared with him.

Farnsworth had set him on this path. Farnsworth had known something. Farnsworth had set him onto the Duquesa and somehow, at the same time, onto Gracie. He was as devious as father.

Charley wanted to laugh. He wanted to punch something—or someone, preferably the missing Farnsworth.

He unwound her fingers from the reticule and gripped them. “By God, Father,” he said. “You may not importune her for information. The war is over. It does not matter.”

Her chin dropped to her chest, tearing half of his heart with it. They had only just married, and he was losing her, and his father sat calmly looking on.

He forced his hands to relax, to not squeeze hers. None of this was her doing.

He knew now what his brothers had gone through. And what Father must have gone through ten years before.

He squeezed his eyes and tried to blot out his last memory of his mother, broken, bloated, and dead on the Yorkshire cliffs. Gracie was alive, and he must keep her that way.

“Father, it doesn’t matter what Gracie knows. Even if we find the man, it will not bring Mother back to life.”

Gracie jerked. She gasped, and as if her breath was pumping into his chest he felt her surprise.

“Charley is right,” Kincaid said with his usual aplomb. The tension inside the coach hadn’t touched him at all. “And we have other fish to snare. Carvelle has resurfaced. Off to Kent he is. There’s a boat off the coast we’ve been watching. We’ve recalled the revenue officer he had in his pocket. Sent in a new one to give him a little surprise.”

Carvelle’s absence from London eased his worry.

“So he is a smuggler?” Gracie asked.

“Built an empire on it,” Kincaid said. “But the war is over, and he’s had some losses recently. Calling in debts, he is.”

“Debts?” She glanced up at Charley, and then at the other two, and bit her lip. “So, as we thought, my dowry and I were supposed to pay off some debt of Kingsley’s.”

“Yes.”

“Something illegal,” she mused. “Something secret.”

“Perhaps,” Kincaid said, “Or perhaps just a bad investment, a ship taken by pirates or some such.”

Or perhaps a ship taken in the West Indies by a privateer?

While she looked away, holding her peace, he pondered the possibilities, and reminded himself, she had more secrets she had not shared, not even with him.

Graciela spotted Lord Shaldon’s butler opening the house door before the carriage had even stopped. She had lifted the curtain a fraction while the men talked. Her brain was a terrible blur, her inner vision filled with strong men—dark-haired, red-haired, old and young, and one tawny-haired fellow whose chest bore the scar of a blade, whose hand even now engulfed one of her own and would not let go.

The great bulky carriage stopped with a flurry of action. The man called Kincaid jumped out. Charley cupped some hidden away weapon, still clutching her hand.

“Let me out, Charley.” She nudged his unmoving bulk.

Only when Kincaid signaled that all was clear did Charley climb out and pull her into his arms.

“Put me down. I can walk.”

Grinning all the way to the entrance hall, he finally set her on her feet. “Lest you’ve forgotten it’s our wedding night."

Memories of the previous night’s pleasure flooded her, and she shook them off. She needed some time away from these men. She needed to think about what the Duque had said, about what her Papa had said, and the secrets he’d left in her care.

“I’m going to go see that Reina is alright.”

His hands stroked her arms. “You know she’s asleep now, else we would hear her.”

Lord Shaldon’s steps echoed, and he and his men moved down the hall towards the library.

Charley must have seen them with the spy’s eyes in the back of his head. “We must go and talk to Father first.”

She tried to pull away. “You go and talk to your father.”

“And what? Manage your life for you? Don’t you want to hear it for yourself when Father says the name of the traitor he’s after?”

One footman remained in the hall with them, pretending not to listen. She moved closer and whispered, “Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

His brown eyes glowed in the light of the entryway lamp, rich, dark, and enticing. Warmth touched her where his hands rested. Only warmth, no pressure.

“The spy is not my father.”

“I believe you. And I wasn’t sent to spy on you.” He screwed up his mouth. “As far as I know. But, how did I wind up at your betrothal ball? I must ask Perry about that invitation. Very likely, Farnsworth knew that once I laid eyes upon you I’d be interested. That was true, and from the moment you shushed me in Kingsley’s garden, I was yours.”

Like molten honey, the words trickled in, soothing her.

But—he was a consummate liar. She had to toughen her heart and play at his game. But how?

She could counter that she had become his, but at what moment?

When she’d fainted into his arms? When she’d met him in the Kingsley kitchen the night she’d escaped? Or was it when his eyes had lit up at the sight of her little girl. Or…when he’d kissed Rigo’s brand...

She blinked and looked at his neck cloth, still perfectly creased. He had made her forget about the horrible times, had made her feel again. And she still didn’t altogether know what he had planned for her. It was too much. It had happened too quickly, and what could she do about it? If she were to escape this, she would have to leave part of her heart behind.

“It seems I am yours also, Charley, at least for this time.”

“Let it be for all time.” He bent and put his lips to her forehead.

She squeezed her eyes closed. She must not sink into these warm feelings. She must think.

And he was right, she needed to know what Shaldon would say, and then she could decide how to proceed.

“Yes. Of course. As you say. For all time.” She shook him off, slipped under his arm and headed down the corridor toward the library.

Charley caught up and she waited for his touch on her arm, her hand, her waist. It did not come. When she glanced at him, he was staring ahead.

A tiny piece of her heart ripped and she straightened her shoulders. Let him be angry. Should the secrets she carried require her to leave, it would be easier if he was setting the first little bit of distance.

Scattered candles brought light to the room. A lamp illuminated Lord Shaldon in an armchair and another man across the library table, his back to the door. Outside the circle of light, Mr. Kincaid stood resting his hands on a chair. Relaxed, but he was the sort of man who could, one second later, pick up that chair and swing it at a threat.

Her skin rippled. He was dangerous, this Kincaid. As was Lord Shaldon. As was Charley. And probably the man in the chair. Not to her, not as long as she stayed in their light. If she stepped out of it...

They heard her approach and rose, tall men all of them. The visitor turned.

Her heart all but stopped—here was another faker. “I know you,” she said.

A smile quirked his lips. “And I hope you are enjoying your fine bedchamber, miss.” He spoke with an underlay of the east side.

“Mr. Cooper.”

He shook his head. “I am sorry for my deception.”

Ah now, his speech was all tonny Mayfair.

“I am Farnsworth.”

Farnsworth? This man had organized workmen in her bedchamber at Kingsley House, hanging paper, varnishing floors, burnishing furniture, fixing windows.

He had sought her out several times, changing the plans to her liking and graciously taking her Ladyship’s threats of nonpayment at the results. He had befriended Graciela. He had talked to her.

And just as he was entertaining Lady Kingsley’s dreams of a grander redecorating of the rest of the house, he was gone. Shortly after, word came that Papa had died, and a new man had had to be contracted for draperies and paint and wall hangings.

“Farnsworth,” she said again, and disliked that her voice shook. He had kept his identity a secret. She was sure the Kingsleys had not known him. But why?

The answer crept over her. He did not trust them. He was spying on them.

Or—on her?

She wobbled and straightened herself. Charley had not stepped up to join her and she must steady her own self. “You left.”

The man called Farnsworth took her hand. “Please sit. Charles, pull that chair over.” He helped her onto the cushioned seat. “Some sherry, I think, Charles.”

Charley’s frown buoyed her. He went to do Farnsworth’s bidding, as he had done for Mrs. Windle the night Graciela had escaped.

When she looked, Lord Shaldon was back in his chair, his lips turned up ever so slightly.

Dios. She took the proffered glass and only touched it to her lips before setting it away. She would need all her wits about her even among these so-called friends.

“Word came last winter. Napoleon’s health was failing. A dreadful voyage, St. Helena is. Have you journeyed that far south, my dear?”

He was making small talk, and being most deceptive. He’d not had time to travel that far and come back. Was this how spies questioned their quarry?

She nodded. “Yes, further, actually. Not on that side of the Atlantic, though. It is a trip of several months.” They had traveled around Cape Horn to Valparaiso, and then north, and more than once. She had been but a child the first time, and the storms had been terrifying. “I have never been so cold in my life, that is, until I came here.”

“I’m sorry.” Farnsworth’s eyes were a velvety brown. He was younger than Lord Shaldon, younger even then her father, she would guess. A bit of gray showed above his ears, but the lines on his face hadn’t settled. A handsome enough man he was, with the kind of face that would mold into any disguise.

At his age, he might have offered for her himself if he were unmarried. However, Mr. Cooper’s interest had never been amorous. Now, as then, he was all kindness.

“Your father counted that family pride and generous access to your trust funds would keep you and the child safe. Nevertheless, he did not entirely trust Lord Kingsley and his lady. Her connections have always been—questionable.”

“Gregory Carvelle is her cousin.”

“Indeed. When I left, the child seemed well cared for by your servants, and you were outfitted well. I made sure that your rooms were the first stare.”

She swallowed a lump. The rooms had been a beautiful refuge, for a while. “Her ladyship never stopped complaining about the changes, but when the news came about my father, she took those rooms.”

“Good God,” Charley muttered.

Farnsworth’s mouth firmed.

She waved a hand in the air. “I am a colonial girl and a sea captain’s daughter. I have slept in huts, and windowless cabins, and even out in the open air. The new bedchamber where they put me was better because I was closer to Reina, and I was able to more easily escape. I am not a fairy tale princess.”

Charley shifted and her gaze met his. “You are my princess,” he mouthed, pointing at himself.

Her cheeks warmed. She bit her lips and rubbed at a spot on the chair arm. She must fight the temptation. Never mind that it was her wedding night. She did not want to be swept away tonight, unless she was swept out the door, with her servants and child—well, and perhaps Charley also—to some anonymous lodging far from this tangle.

None of it had been her doing. She had been good. She had been dutiful. When Papa said he must leave them in Tampico, she’d hugged him goodbye and stayed. When Mama said they must go to Veracruz, she’d gone along on the journey. When Papa said to stay with the Kingsleys until he returned, she’d stayed.

Stay here with my cousin. You will be safe. Should my journey be long or unsuccessful, I’ve set up a trust for you. I’ve set up guardians until you come of age. You must be strong, Graciela.

She had tried to be strong. And time had inched on during Papa’s absence but it was still almost three years until she reached her majority. And now none of that mattered because she had stepped off the edge of the deck and plunged into marriage.

Lord Shaldon cleared his throat. “I know it has been a very tiring day and night, but will you share with us what you know, my dear?”

More memories crushed her.

Reaching Veracruz had not brought them safety. First there was the fighting between the Spanish and the rebels. Then illness came, weakening them.

And the fever had not killed her mother. Before he left England, Papa had told her the truth, his words turning her grief upside down. While Graciela was sweating and writhing, Mama had recovered and had been murdered, and Consuela with her.

Papa had ordered her to keep the murder secret, but surely Captain Llewellyn had been helping him search for whoever was behind Mama’s murder. That was why Papa left England, to sail back and join Captain Llewellyn.

They were all watching her. Only Charley’s eyes showed an identifiable emotion, because he hadn’t hardened as these men had, because he wasn’t really a spy.

Because she knew him and loved him.

She sniffed and twisted her hands. She’d always been able to read Papa, too, until that last day together.

If the worst comes, the book holds all I have found. If you are in danger, go to Lord Shaldon. If I should die—only then—take the book to him, and tell him it is not for the Crown. If the worst comes, Lord Shaldon can be trusted. Until then, you must hold it for me.

Papa was not dead. She must not share his words.

“I lied.” She eased in a breath.

But who would have killed Mama?

I intend to find out, and there is another matter I must look into. You’ll stay with my cousin. You’ll be safe there.

She knew Lady Shaldon was dead, but Charley’s words implied that she’d been murdered also.

She would share that much. “My father was looking for someone. He was looking for the man who m-murdered my mother.”

She looked through her lashes at Charley. His face had set into a tense mask.

“She did not die of the fever as I told you.”

Tell no one, Graciela.

The terrible burden of this secret lifted. “I lied then also. Papa told me to keep to that story.” I’m sorry, Papa. I’m just a weak, stupid, stupid girl.

Her vision clouded and she blinked furiously trying to clear it.

A handkerchief was pressed into her hand, and she lifted it to her eyes, Charley’s scent filling her. A great sob rocked through her, and she pressed the cloth to her mouth to hold it back, conscious of the men waiting around her.

The weight of everything—their presence, her father’s words, his books, his secrets― pressed down upon her.

An arm came around her, a large hand pulling her head to a broad shoulder, lending her strength while her breathing eased.

She lifted her head and looked into Charley’s eyes level with hers as he knelt beside her.

“Would you tell us the rest, please, Graciela?” Shaldon asked. “I promise you, it won’t leave this room.”

“Father, she’s been through enough tonight.”

He thought to speak for her? But the tone had been kind. He was not trying to bully her.

She squeezed his hand. “Lord Shaldon, how could whatever I say not leave this room, if it leads you to take some action against…” She shook her head. “Someone. Someone who is a traitor, or someone who killed Charley’s mother, or mine?”

Lord Shaldon blinked once, twice. “You will have our promise, daughter,” he said. “Mine, Kincaid’s, Farnsworth’s, and of course, your husband’s.”

She dabbed her eyes again. “I have promised my father. Unless he is dead…and I will not believe it on the word of those men Captain Llewellyn picked out of the water.”

“Llewellyn was there tonight,” Charley said, “lurking about.”

“We plan to investigate,” Shaldon said. “If you have anything that will help us—”

“It is not for the Crown,” she said.

Charley’s hand stilled.

“Papa’s words. If he died, go to you and give you…” She swallowed more tears. “And I must tell you ‘it is not for the Crown.’ But if he is alive, and he comes back, I will have betrayed him.”

“We know your father,” Farnsworth said. “All of us except Charley. We’ll explain to him when he returns. We’ll keep his secrets, and if we can, we will use them to help find him, or to find out what happened to him.”

She looked at Charley.

“It is a hard choice, Gracie,” he said. “But something is very fishy about Kingsley, Llewellyn and Carvelle. Throw in the Duque too, and,” his mouth firmed, “another man who I met the other night at the club, a Major Payne-Elsdon, recently in Spain. He was hovering near Llewellyn tonight.” He squeezed her hand. “In any case, with or without your secrets, I intend to take action.”

“How?” she asked.

“We will all take action,” Shaldon said.

“I will know what that is before I speak.”

Charley’s gaze narrowed on his father. “Does this have to do with Pamplona, Father?”

“What is Pamplona?” she asked.

“Your father had a deep commitment to your mother, my dear,” Shaldon said, “and a great loathing for Spain. He has thrown his support to the rebels of New Spain.”

They had completely ignored her questions. Very well, she would hold her peace for now and see where this was leading.

“This I already know about my father, my Lord. Do you know who killed my mother?”

“No.” Kincaid spoke. “Yet perhaps whatever Captain Kingsley asked you to safeguard might help us discern the truth.”

“It is up to you, Gracie,” Charley said.

Up to her.

Papa always said, on a ship, the captain decided everything. He was god as far as the gunwale, and then the sea ruled, and one must learn how to roll with old Neptune’s changes. Like these men, the sea played its games and hid its secrets. Papa might be alive, or he might be dead, but either way, he’d left this charge to her. And she would have their help.

Forgive me, Papa.

“He told me, he told me, she said, ‘the book holds all I have found’. Later, after that, he gave me a prayer book in Spanish with a blade in the spine, but nothing else. I did check the bindings. I read every page.” Dios, by then she had needed those prayers. “I examined the pages in front of a candle. I washed them in vinegar. I could see nothing.”

The men continued their silent study. Charley’s arm lent his strength.

“It was big, this book. I could not manage it going out the window. I left it behind.”

“Has Kingsley sent over your things?” Shaldon asked.

“Only the gowns I arrived with. Not the new ones, not my brushes and combs, and not the book.”

“I’ll go tonight for it,” Charley said, getting to his feet. “I’ll take Juan. He’ll know the window to access.”

“You mean to break in?” She stood. “Then I will go with you.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“For you as well. I will not sit here idly while you go climbing the side of a London house.”

Charley edged closer, his eyes gleaming. “I have some experience at that. You don’t.”

“I have climbed ship ladders. I have climbed masts. I have climbed cliffs and I know where we must go.”

“No.”

“You obstinate man. If you are going, I am going also.”

Lord Shaldon cleared his throat. “Graciela, my dear, is that the only book you possessed?”

His lordship almost lolled in his seat, as did Farnsworth.

Charley inhaled sharply and reached for her hand. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Her heart pounded. The sonnets.

“But thy eternal summer shall not fade.”

“The book of sonnets was my mother’s. She used it to help her learn English.”

He raised her hand to his lips. “When in eternal lines to time thou growest, so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

Tears came then, and she could not stop them nor stop from trembling. He pressed her to his chest.

They had been at sea when Papa put the book into her hands. He could only bear to part with it, he said, if she would keep it safe until his return.

Papa’s heart had not truly broken. It had hardened with a need for justice.

Forgive me, Papa.

“Might we see this book of sonnets?” his Lordship asked.

“I will get it,” Charley said.

“No, I will go.” She stepped back and bumped the chair, almost plopping into it. He steadied her.

“We’ll be back in a moment, Father.”

Charley followed her as she ran up the stairs, her skirts raised high to show her slim ankles. He could see her as a hoyden climbing everywhere, just like Reina, outrunning all the danger around her.

Her mother had been murdered, just like his. He would not let this woman from his sight.

Her bedchamber had been set up for their wedding night, lush bedding turned down, a covered tray upon the table, an open bottle of wine breathing next to it. Francisca pushed through the dressing room door with her customary scowl.

He snagged a biscuit from the tray. “We will not need you, Francisca. You may return to Reina.”

Gracie sent him a glare and went to the bedside drawer. “We must return downstairs,” she said in Spanish. “Here it is.” She quickly hugged the maid. “I shall be all right,” she said, and headed for the door.

“She will be.” He took two steps and grasped the maid’s bony hands. “I will take care of her.”

He would. By God, he would. Tonight, he would get her through this next discovery.