Bakeley strode back and braced his hands on the back of his chair. “Father. Have you gone mad? Call me Father, Sirena? Only days ago you were telling me to stay away from her.”

Kincaid cleared his throat. Bakeley ignored him.

“Did you listen?” Shaldon said. “Did it keep you away from her? No. You were as besotted as a puppy the moment you took her in the dance.”

Fire rushed through him. Besotted, yes, and he should be well on his way to taking her in more than just a dance, instead of talking about using her as bait to draw in a radical.

“But we have learned, have we not. Kincaid, that when circumstances arise, one makes the best of the situation.”

Kincaid turned away to hide a smile, and then he knew. He knew.

Shaldon had engineered his marriage to Sirena as surely as he’d done with the marriage of Bink and Paulette, though he’d used a different set of wiles.

He rubbed a hand on his cheek. He’d been dodging every one of his father’s conspiracies and plots, ever since the fiasco with Bink. Shaldon had thrown Denholm’s chit at him, knowing he would reject Lady Glenna, purposely telling him to stay away from Sirena.

He walked to the sideboard where Hackwell had bottles of liquor and poured himself an amber liquid from a cut glass carafe. Brandy, he hoped.

He quaffed it back and almost choked. It was a strong Scotch whisky, with a bracing burn that smoothed out on the way down. He poured another.

“Not too many, my son, if you’re going to take effective action with your bride tonight.”

He cursed low under his breath and drank.

His mind swam with pictures of her in her gold and red gown, and a chuckle bubbled up from the spot where the liquor had settled. His father’s wishes for his marriage and his own had coincided, and that hadn’t changed. He had no regrets—so far—about the wife he’d chosen.

But she wasn’t going to work for the British Secret Service. That he would not allow.

“So what is your plan, Father, Kincaid? Or shall I say, what are the parts of your plan you’re willing to share with me?”

“Don’t be angry with me, boy. You’re not unhappy with your wife.”

It was true. He wasn’t. “Nothing can be straightforward with you, can it, Father? First Bink, now me. And you almost got Paulette and Bink killed.”

“Because they didn’t trust me.”

“And who could?”

“The right spouse makes all the difference in your happiness. I’ve tried to lead you lads in the way that would be most effective.”

“Most effective?”

“Yes. My eldest is a warrior. I knew when he saw Paulette in danger, he’d protect her. And then there was the money settled on them, and the chance to stand for Parliament and right the wrongs he saw in society.”

“I see.”

And none of those applied to him. He was a steward of the family wealth, not a warrior. He was rich already. And he would, someday, take his place in the Lords when he inherited.

When his father died.

He studied the amber liquid. He had no wish to rush into the Lords.

“And me, Father?”

Shaldon made a rumbling noise in his throat, sending up a fit of coughing from his gut. Kincaid poured him some of the whisky and handed him the tumbler.

“Please. No swooning, Father. No pretending to die before we have this little talk.”

Kincaid chuckled, a rare enough occurrence that Bakeley knew the coughing was a ruse.

“I’m waiting.”

“You are so like her.”

“Like Sirena?”

Shaldon waved his hand. “Like your mother. Never would let me get away with anything. Even when I was on the Continent, her wagging finger followed me. No foolishness, Shaldon, she would say, and I’d see her in my mind’s eye.”

He snorted. “I fail to see—”

“I didn’t see it either. Didn’t see how well you managed in my absence after she was gone. I didn’t trust your judgment, and so you didn’t trust mine, did you? If I said go, you looked for all the ways to stay. If I said buy, you investigated selling. You became a contrarian, Bakeley.”

Heat rose in him, but he kept his manner cold. “Indeed.”

“And then I learned that Lady Jane had come to town with the late Earl of Glenmorrow’s daughter. I had visited that estate once.”

The hair on Bakeley’s neck prickled. He’d visited Glenmorrow also?

“She was far too young to remember me. She’s grown into a lovely woman, like her mother. Her father was an affable fellow then. Not yet broken.” He handed Kincaid his glass. “Get me another, Kincaid.”

When Kincaid returned, he quaffed the shot. “So Lady Sirena came to town. Hackwell’s Annabelle liked her well, as did Paulette.” He thumped the chair arm and stared at the fire. “And, of course, Jane. The family’s problems didn’t jade the girl, though they easily could have.”

His mind swirled and his head buzzed, but it was the only noise in the quiet room. Very well. He’d been manipulated by the crafty old Spy Lord. In the end, he’d been maneuvered into marrying the wife his father had arranged for him.

He went and got another drink. There was no rush to consummate a marriage so carefully managed.

“Bakeley.” His father’s voice sliced through him. “You wouldn’t have married her had you not wished to. This marriage was your decision, and your doing. I simply made sure you met the lady.”

And told me to stay away from her. And there was the matter of the assault at the docks.

“She could have been killed yesterday. Did you know about it?”

Shaldon nodded.

“Were you behind her assault?”

“Most emphatically no.”

He set the glass down untouched. His father was right, too much drink would dull his senses, already sapped by too little sleep. He’d gone after the forbidden fruit, and he was damn well going to partake of it. “I thank you for this little father-son discussion. I believe we’ll set off for home.”

“I should like very much for you to return to Shaldon House after your honeymoon. Your sister is not entirely content with playing the political hostess and this will be a very lively session, I do believe, with both of your brothers in the Commons.”

Bink certainly would vote for lifting the more onerous of the Six Acts, and Charley might be amenable to siding with their brother. He himself would not have a place in Parliament, not yet, but as the manager of a grand estate and network of commercial interests, he could still exert influence. It remained to be seen how Sirena’s role would play out.

And then of course, there was the man his father wanted to trap.

“Sirena as your hostess, Father?” He tried to picture her at the foot of the great dining table, and shook his head.

Could that wild girl from Glenmorrow’s stable play that role? Would she be willing? Should he give her the choice? Certainly, the small stable behind Shaldon House would be a forceful lure for his horse-mad bride.

“You will, I hope, give us a few days for our honeymoon before Sirena must begin fêting politicians and luring radicals.”

Shaldon eyed him shrewdly and said nothing.

His hair rose. He must be on his toes. And he must get his new bride to their bed, before his father set another plan in motion. “We’ll decide on our arrangements after the honeymoon.”

As for Donegal...

“How do you plan to lure your man out of wherever he is hiding?”

“We’ve not decided,” Kincaid said. “We shall, however, include you in our planning. You must know that. You must tell your lady. I fear she is a determined sort.”

Shaldon cleared his throat.

“No,” Kincaid said. “He must know. The O’Brian boys—”

“Who?” Even as he said it he remembered—the Smith brothers.

Shaldon eyed Kincaid, who lifted a shoulder and spoke. “The two men with her at the docks. Yes, they worked for me upon occasion. Didn’t know your father was involved. They knew her from her home, yes, they did. Yet when we asked them, they agreed to help. Had a poaching charge against them, they did, yet they seemed good sorts.”

A memory of her on the docks arose.

“And the group that attacked her? Were they with Donegal?”

“We don’t know,” Shaldon said. “The docks are filled with riffraff.”

“Find a female operative, one of your women with yellow hair, to play Sirena’s role.”

Shaldon pursed his lips. “We’ll consider it. It may not work, however. We believe Donegal may have seen her already, if not recently then in the past.”

“He’s been a decade away, maybe longer.”

“True. Or possibly true.” His father rose and walked toward him. “Now, take your bride home, son. Kincaid will put a guard around your townhouse.” Shaldon took his hand and shook it heartily. “She’s a worthy wife. No harm shall touch her.”

Kincaid gripped his hand also and then helped the old lord out.

In the years since his return, Shaldon had been turning the world topsy-turvy. And he’d managed to combine matchmaking with his spying business.

All well and good, the sooner they got through the Donegal matter, the sooner Shaldon would move on to Charley.

Donegal. Sirena had surely recognized that name. Neither she nor the O’Brians had shared the name of the man they were seeking. His new wife had kept that secret. He’d have to be on his toes with her also.

He’d have to convince her to share all her secrets, and the only way he knew how to do that was to seduce her until she was witless.

The moment the door of the coach clicked shut, Sirena was pulled onto Bakeley’s lap. His big hand pressed her head to his broad shoulder, and then...nothing.

The clackity-clack of the wheels and the clip-clopping of horse’s hooves, all around the carriage actually—strange that—was all she heard.

“Who’s with us?” she asked.

“We are being guarded.”

“By whom?”

He loosed a hand from her back and waved it. “Kincaid. His men.”

“Are we in danger then? And from whom?” She tried to sit up but he clasped her as though she were a piece of Chinese porcelain. “And what about Donegal?”

“Was it Donegal you went to look for yesterday?”

She tried hard not to freeze. Holding her this tightly, he would notice. Yet a little shiver still went through her.

“Please do not lie, my love.”

His love. And if she believed that there was a tree with a leprechaun she could sell him. Still he was right that she should not out and out lie. Close to the truth was always better. In this case, she might as well say it all.

“That was the name the boys gave me.”

“Did you know the O’Brians also worked for Shaldon?”

She went even colder, deep into her core, and all of her fingers and toes numbed. Walter and Josh worked for Shaldon?

And then a hot pounding started inside her head. Bakeley was lying, tripping her up. Conspiring with his Awful Lordship to trap her.

She’d tied her cart to this horse for the rest of her life. What had she done? Oh, dear God, what had she done?

He noticed her fear, of course he did, because that paddle hand stroked her back like he was settling a horse, and the motion inflamed her more. She struggled. He tightened his embrace.

“Let me off.”

He’d trapped her arms at her sides, and was setting his lips to her face. She turned her head to move out of his way, bucked. Squirmed. All to no avail.

Rage built within her. There was no one to help, no housekeeper to lace his brandy with laudanum, no butler ready to bash him.

She opened her mouth to let out a scream. He planted his lips there.

“Get off,” she tried to say, but it came out garbled, and tasted like spirits, and his lips in spite of it all were gentle.

The scent of him flooded her, brought all of her senses alive. The horses outside clopped along steadily. She was surrounded by men—Shaldon’s men. Screaming would not help her.

She should think. But, oh, the rascally man would only allow her to feel.

His lips moved to her cheek, and between kisses he murmured, “Be still,” and “I’m sorry,” and “It’s what Shaldon said,” and “We’ll do this together.”

And then, “Do not cry, love.”

Damn, damn, damn.

She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, soaking her glove. “I’m a bloody fool. Shaldon’s son? I’ve married Shaldon’s son. What was I thinking?”

He handed her a handkerchief. In the dim light of the coach’s lantern, his eyes sparkled like fairy dust.

“You weren’t thinking. Neither was I. Marriage is usually a rational endeavor, but not in our case. You were using your woman’s intuition. Here’s a strong, sensible man, you said, rich, too. And he genuinely wants me.”

“Oh, yes? And what of you? Were you using your man’s intuition?”

“Oh, yes.”

The kiss that followed was less gentle, more determined. His hand at the back of her head kept her fixed and held her in place when the coach turned a corner and threatened to topple her. A sigh worked its way from inside her, and when her mouth opened, his tongue touched hers and began to explore.

It was…oh. His hand moved up her bodice, still spanning her side and keeping her stable, while his thumb began to search for her nipple. The layers of fabric—her pelisse, her petticoat, her gown, her stays, her chemise—intruded. She grasped the back of his head and hitched herself closer.

He traced the line of her bodice and trailed his fingers under the fabric. The deep curve of her décolletage made the journey a short one, and soon she was gasping while pleasure streaked through her.

He let go of her lips then and nibbled her cheeks down to a spot on her neck, and the feel of it made her groan.

This was not Shaldon’s son. This was James, Lord Bakeley, the man she’d just entered into mad holy matrimony with to save her men from his father, the Spy Lord. Only they were really Shaldon’s men, not hers. And now the crafty old Lord wanted her to call himself Father.

It was beyond madness, even for an Irish girl.

He gave up on her breast and before she could cry out in protest he had captured her mouth again, distracting her so much she didn’t notice his hand had moved up under her skirt to above her knee, where he was wreaking a havoc of sensation. She swept her tongue against his and gave back completely, burying her fingers in his thick hair.

His hand made a rapid advance to the crux of her legs and began a gentle assault, sending such bliss through her that she groaned with it.

When he stilled his hand, she pulled back, and realized the carriage had stopped.

He opened the shade. The lights of the townhouse poured brightly through the open front door where the housekeeper and her husband stood waiting.

“We’re home.” Eyes glittering darkly, he straightened her skirt and bodice, eased her onto the seat and rearranged his trousers.