Cousin Bathilda had had hysterics over Maximus’s demand that Hero marry on Sunday. She’d gone off to try and reason with Maximus, but Hero had very little hope that even Cousin Bathilda would persuade Maximus to put off the wedding. Once Maximus set his mind to something, he was like a granite boulder: hard and immovable.

Not that it mattered, really.

If she were to marry Thomas, this Sunday or a Sunday months from now it made no difference. She didn’t even care about the inevitable scandal. She knew she should. A small part of her mind was wailing that she should be panicked, should be pacing or throwing hysterics herself. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to care.

She was making a mistake.

Hero sighed and dropped the earring next to her tea-cup. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was making a terrible, irredeemable mistake.

“There you are,” Phoebe called from the doorway as she entered. “Wherever has Cousin Bathilda gone? I can’t seem to find her.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Hero said, feeling guilty. “She’s gone off in a frenzy to speak to Maximus.”

“Oh,” Phoebe said, sitting down on a chair at right angles to Hero’s settee.

Phoebe’s little shoulders drooped. Hero bit her lip. “Did Maximus talk to you?”

Phoebe nodded, looking down.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Phoebe straightened a bit. “All those balls and such. It would have been wearying, I expect, don’t you?”

“Yes, it is rather tiring,” Hero said gently.

“It’s just…” Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “I would’ve liked to have danced with a gentleman not related to me once. Just once.”

Hero felt tears prick her eyes.

“It’s for the best. I do understand that.” Phoebe inhaled and looked up. “Did Cousin Bathilda go to talk to Maximus about your marriage?”

Her voice was diffident and Hero felt worse. They’d not told Phoebe anything, but she must’ve been aware of the household turmoil the last couple of days.

“You know Maximus said I had to marry this Sunday?” Hero asked.

“One of the servants overheard something and told me.” Phoebe’s eyes dropped. “I thought you didn’t like him anymore?”

“It’s rather complicated.”

“But he hit you, didn’t he?” Phoebe looked at her worriedly. “That’s where you got that bruise on your cheek, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Hero winced as she touched her cheek. It was turning a rather vivid purple. “But he has sent his apologies.” She gestured to the vase of roses.

Phoebe examined them. “So that’s who they’re from?”

“Yes.”

“They’re quite extravagant. He must be feeling guilty. But then he should feel guilty. I don’t think you ought to marry him,” Phoebe said earnestly. “Not if he’s hurt you. What is Maximus thinking?”

“It’s not quite that simple.” Hero sighed and picked up the diamond earring, twisting it between her fingers. “Maximus is doing what he thinks is best for me.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Mandeville acted out of anger—I did something to anger him terribly. He’s a very trustworthy man usually. Maximus knows this and knows he will make a responsible, solid husband for me.”

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Responsible. Solid.”

When repeated flatly like that, Thomas’s attributes sounded less sterling. Nevertheless, Hero nodded. “Yes.”

“It seems rather boring reasons for marrying someone.”

Hero bit her lip. “Marriage is supposed to be boring.”

“Why?” Phoebe asked. “Why can’t it be exciting and… and an adventure? I’m sure if you looked a bit more, you could find a man who made your heart thrill when you saw him.”

Made her heart thrill. That was what she felt like when she saw Griffin. But he was wholly inappropriate, wasn’t he? Phoebe was simply too young to understand.

Hero shook her head, staring at the earring in her hand.

Phoebe leaned forward to peer at her hand. “Isn’t that the earbob you lost at your engagement ball?”

“Yes.” Hero folded her fingers protectively around the little piece.

“But how wonderful that you’ve found it again,” Phoebe said. “It’s almost like having an entirely new set when one finds a lost earring, I always think.”

Hero raised her eyebrows in faint amusement. “How often do you lose earrings?”

“Quite often, I’m afraid,” Phoebe said. “They just seem to—”

“Your brother is as stubborn as a mule!” Cousin Bathilda cried as she entered the sitting room. Mignon barked as if to emphasize the pronouncement.

“He wouldn’t move the date?” Hero asked.

“Not only would he not move the date, but he also wouldn’t even discuss the matter.” Cousin Bathilda plopped onto the settee beside Hero, earning a growly grumble from Mignon. “Then he had the temerity to tell me that he had business to conduct and that our interview was over! Can you imagine? Where that man became so rude, I haven’t the faintest. Your mother was the height of civility, my dears, a true lady, even without the title, and I certainly never led him to believe that such conduct to his elders was a matter of course.”

Cousin Bathilda was busy twitching her skirts in her agitation, and the constant movement was apparently too much for Mignon. The little spaniel got up from her lap and delicately stepped onto Hero’s lap, where she settled with a long-suffering sigh.

Hero stroked Mignon’s silky ears. “Would you like some tea, Cousin?”

“Tea would be quite the thing,” Cousin Bathilda said. “But this pot has gone cold no doubt. Phoebe, will you be a dear and call for another?”

“Yes, Cousin Bathilda.” Phoebe obediently rose.

Bathilda cast a glance at the girl as she crossed to the door. “How much does she know of the matter, do you think?”

“Probably everything,” Hero said wearily. “The servants can’t help but overhear and they gossip, you know.”

“Wretched gossip!” Cousin Bathilda humphed. Phoebe returned and Bathilda smoothed her face. “Thank you, my dear. I’m glad to know that I instilled some manners in you girls at least.”

“I don’t think anyone could make Maximus do something he didn’t want to do, manners or not,” Phoebe said cheerfully. “He’s the duke, after all. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine him as anything else, but he must’ve been a baby with pap on his face once upon a time.” She frowned uncertainly. “He was, wasn’t he?”

“Of course!” Bathilda said. “He was an adorable baby, although very grave even when in leading strings. Your mother used to laugh at his solemn face.”

“Did she?” Phoebe leaned forward. She was always interested in discussions of their parents. Since she’d only been an infant when they died, she had no memories of them.

“Oh, yes,” Cousin Bathilda said, “though your father chided her for it. He said such solemnity in a boy would make a good duke in a man. And he was right—Maximus is a magnificent duke, even if he is stubborn as a mule.”

The maids entered with new tea things, and there was silence a moment as they cleared the old tea away and set out the new. Hero thanked them and they curtsied and quietly left the room.

“This looks nice and hot,” Cousin Bathilda said as she sat forward to pour. “Phoebe, would you like a dish? Hero?”

Hero shook her head, and Cousin Bathilda assembled a dish of tea for Phoebe and one for herself.

Cousin Bathilda sat back with her dish, inhaling the steam. “Ah, this is restorative. I can’t think why your brother must torment me so, my dears.”

“Perhaps his business was very important,” Phoebe offered as she sipped her own tea.

Cousin Bathilda snorted delicately. “He said so and perhaps thought so, but I don’t see how arresting some illicit gin maker in the worst part of St. Giles can be all that important no matter what he says or thinks.”

Mignon squeaked as Hero clutched involuntarily at her ear. Maximus was after a gin maker in St. Giles—today! Griffin had said just last night that he’d argued with Maximus. If Maximus saw Griffin as a threat to her marriage to Thomas, he might consider it a deed well done to get Griffin out of the way.

Hero shivered as fear raced up her spine. Her brother could be very ruthless, but surely—surely!—he wouldn’t move against Griffin when she was about to marry Thomas. Hadn’t he promised her? But, no, he hadn’t actually put the promise into words—he’d simply asked if she wanted Griffin arrested. The implication had been that he would have Griffin arrested if she didn’t marry Thomas. But after that, Griffin had argued with Maximus. Had Maximus decided to eliminate the threat that Griffin posed to her marriage to Thomas?

Cousin Bathilda glanced at her. “Something the matter, my dear?”

“I… I was just wondering when Maximus plans to arrest this gin distiller.” Hero dug her fingers into Mignon’s soft fur, and Mignon licked her hand.

“At this very moment,” Cousin Bathilda replied, causing Hero’s heart to nearly stop. “Well, soon in any case. He was muttering something about taking soldiers and finding his informant as he escorted me to his door.”

Hero leaned forward urgently. “Then he hasn’t done it yet? There’s still time?”

Cousin Bathilda looked startled and slowly lowered her teacup. “Why, yes, I suppose so, dear. Whyever do you ask?”

“I-I’ve remembered an appointment,” Hero said, standing and unceremoniously dumping Mignon to the floor. The little dog squawked and retreated under the settee. “Is the carriage still in front?”

“I don’t know,” Cousin Bathilda called behind Hero as she rushed to the door. “Hero, what is this about?”

But Hero was already in the outer hallway making for the stairs. She hadn’t time to explain to either Bathilda or Phoebe. She hadn’t time to find help. She had to go to St. Giles and warn Griffin before her brother threw him in gaol…

On a hanging charge.

THOMAS WAS SURPRISED to see a coach outside Lavinia’s house when he climbed down from his carriage late that afternoon. He frowned, a vague worry beginning to niggle at the back of his mind as he knocked at her door.

The imposing butler answered and scowled down at him. Thomas didn’t bother with any niceties. He brushed past the man, noticing crates and baskets piled against the walls of the hall.

“Where is she?”

“Mrs. Tate is in her rooms,” the man said sourly—and he dropped the “my lord,” Thomas noted.

Thomas ran up the stairs without another word. Damn the man anyway; he was but a mere servant. Thomas was determined to have a word with Lavinia about her staff, but when he reached her rooms, he stopped dead instead. Every drawer was opened in her bureau, and her wardrobe was flung wide. Dresses, petticoats, stockings, shoes, chemises, and other female odds and ends were strewn on every available surface. And in the midst of all this chaos, Lavinia was directing two maids as they packed the clothes into boxes.

“What are you about?” he asked sharply.

She looked up at his voice, and her face went completely blank.

Something in the vicinity of his heart constricted. “Lavinia?”

“Martha, Maisie, please help the footmen in the downstairs sitting rooms,” Lavinia said.

The maids bobbed curtsies and left the room, shooting him curious looks.

He didn’t care what was going through their pea brains. “What are you doing?”