Claire patted the large pocket of her greatcoat as she descended the stairs, the heaviness of the muff pistol concealed within its depths reassuring against her gloved hand. She moved quietly toward the front door, so as not to alert anyone of her intentions.

In the weeks since Clarence’s death, she’d spent many a night walking the streets of London—never without her firearm, of course. She wasn’t a fool. She took great care to always be cognizant of her surroundings. Yes, she put herself in danger. But she couldn’t just sit around doing nothing while Clarence’s killer was out there, alive and free.

But she also walked because facing the endless hours of the night alone in this house without Clarence was often more than she could bear.

Of course, she wasn’t alone tonight, was she?

Andrew was upstairs. In her house once more, as he’d so often been when he and Clarence had been friends. Back when she’d thought she’d meant something to him. But she’d been nothing but a plaything to him. Her heart remembered that pain and wanted him out, now. But her traitorous body…

Not only had the overbearing man taken up residence despite her protests, but he’d insisted on staying in the chamber closest to hers. Right across the hall.

Which meant barely eight steps and a panel of hardened oak were all that separated the two of them.

A warm heat flushed through her. Irritation, she insisted, but she knew she was lying to herself.

For hours, she’d tossed and turned in her bed, lost in the memories of past kisses, heated touches, and long-ago desires.

She’d finally forced the memories away and tried to sleep, but when she’d closed her eyes again all she could see was Andrew, asleep in his own bed, mussed hair dark against his pillow, his impossibly long lashes sooty against his golden skin. When she’d started wondering whether he slept in a night shirt or in nothing at all, she’d known she couldn’t stay in this house a moment longer.

That, more than anything, was what drove her out into the cold tonight. Not the need to escape from her grief or the desire to lure Clarence’s killer, but the urge to run away from her confused feelings for Andrew.

A blast of wintry air hit her face as she opened the entryway door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Claire yelped, her heart slamming into her throat and then fluttering there like a trapped canary.

She whirled around to see Andrew standing in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

“What—what are you doing up?” she squeaked, placing her hand on her chest to soothe the flapping bird within.

“That’s not an answer.” He stepped towards her, passing into the light of a wall sconce. He was wrapped in a calf-length banyan of deepest red silk, with warm black velvet adorning the collar and cuffs. No hint of a ruffled night shirt showed at his neckline. No customary trousers peeked from beneath the hem. And his feet were bare.

He must have heard her leave her room and hurriedly thrown on his robe, buttoning it over…nothing.

She swallowed, her mouth having gone suddenly dry.

Well, she supposed that answered her earlier musings, didn’t it?

He reached her in two long strides, coming so near she caught the scent of peppermint and lemon oil from his tooth powder. Which drew her gaze to his lips, of course. Suggestive, alluring lips—full but not the least bit feminine, the top just slightly more so than the bottom, suggesting long-ago Gallic ancestry. Lips perfect for kissing.

Which was all she could now think about.

Andrew’s arm came around her.

A quiver began in her tummy and she let her eyes drift closed in anticipation.

He pushed the door shut behind her and turned the lock.

The slam and click shook Claire from her stupor.

She nearly growled with self-disgust. Stupid, foolish girl. What was she thinking?

She stepped back from him, her back now touching the carved wood of the door. “Out,” she snapped, irritated with the both of them. “I’m going out.”

His lips pressed together into a line. “Where, Claire?”

She wanted to inform him it was none of his business—which it wasn’t—but she didn’t wish to sound like a petulant child. So she answered with a sigh. “Just for a walk, to clear my head.” No way was she going to tell him what sinful thoughts needed clearing.

His mouth relaxed, but his tone was still quite firm—if one could sound firm and incredulous at the same time, which he seemed able to do. “Need I remind you that someone may be trying to kill you?”

“No,” she gritted out. “Nor do I remember asking you to be my keeper.” Claire slipped her hand reflexively into her pocket and grasped the handle of the muff pistol. “Besides, I hope the blackguard does come after me.”

She pulled the small flintlock pistol from her pocket, twisting her wrist so that the light from the candle sconces glinted off the metal.

Andrew danced back a step in surprise. “Christ, Claire! Is that thing loaded?”

“Of course,” she huffed. “All three barrels. That way, if I miss with my first shot, I’ll have two more to drop any villain foolish enough to try me.”

“Good God,” he muttered.

She scowled at his less-than-confident-in-her-abilities-and-possibly-her-sanity expression.

“Don’t look so alarmed,” she said as she slipped the weapon back into her pocket. “It has a latch that ensures it won’t discharge unless I choose to fire it.”

Andrew had fallen into a tight, agitated pace. Every so often, he shook his head and mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear. Claire barely resisted the urge to mutter some things of her own as she watched him. But all too soon, her frustration turned to a different kind altogether.

The man was rather dashing, prowling around her foyer in nothing but that silk banyan. The cut was more tailored than the robes Clarence had favored, tapering in at the waist in a double-breasted fit more like a waistcoat, and Andrew filled it out nicely. Given that she’d already ascertained he wore nothing beneath it, there could be no pads filling out the wide shoulders, as some men were wont to do. Claire longed to slip her fingers beneath the buttons and feel for herself the changes that years and war had made to the only man’s chest she’d ever explored.

The bottom half of the banyan flowed as he stalked about the room, flashing tantalizing glimpses of muscled calf, dusted with dark hair, and the occasional peek of a well-formed knee.

She tugged at her cravat. Was it getting warm in here?

“Claire!” Her eyes snapped up to Andrew’s face. He’d stopped pacing and was eyeing her with a narrowed gaze. She flushed. Did he know what she’d been thinking?

“I asked,” he repeated, and her flush deepened as she realized he’d been talking to her and she hadn’t heard him, so lost was she in thoughts of seeing his naked chest again, “have you gone out alone like this often?”

She nodded, cheeks burning. “Almost every night.”

He swore. “And you’ve noticed no one following you? Never felt like someone was watching?”

She shook her head. “Never.” She sighed. She’d hoped the killer would come after her by now, close to her home where she felt secure in her surroundings, but he hadn’t. “I don’t think I’ve been trolling the right part of town.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because our coachman told me that Clarence had instructed him to wait a few blocks from the Devil’s Den on the night he was killed.”

Andrew’s brows rose. “The gaming hell?”

“The same.” The infamous bastion of iniquity, frequented by all walks of male London society, and the kinds of females who amused them. Unease flickered low in her stomach, the same as it did whenever she’d thought about going there—as Clarence, of course—to see what she could discover. But she’d not been able to bring herself to brave it alone.

“I know Clarence had an informant there,” she explained. “He never gave me a name, but he must have gone to see the man that night, and been attacked either at the den or just outside, as he was mortally wounded when he stumbled back to the carriage. John Coachman rushed him straight here, but…”

Some days, it still felt unreal. As though it had all happened in a dream and Clarence would come strolling by at any minute and tug at her curls, which he’d done since they were children and which he knew annoyed her to no end. But Lord, she’d give anything to feel that aggravating yank once more. She’d let him pull until her naturally stubborn curls went straight as a board if he wanted. But the killer had made certain that Clarence would never tease her again.

And she wanted to make the wretch pay for that.

“Did Marston know of your suspicions?”

“Yes. He even went to investigate himself, but turned up nothing.”

Andrew nodded, but his eyes wandered somewhere over her shoulder, as if he were lost in his own thoughts. She wondered if he was planning his own visit to the Devil’s Den, to see if he could dig up something Uncle Jarvis had missed.

But only Clarence had known who his contact was. Andrew likely didn’t stand a much better chance than Uncle Jarvis had. “Clarence” needed to be the one to go.

She dare not go by herself, but…Andrew could escort her there.

Even as the idea formed, her stomach started to flutter. Pretending to be Clarence under Uncle Jarvis’s watch at Abchurch was one thing. Even walking the streets as Clarence, armed with her weapon, had felt relatively safe. But the very idea of stepping into the Devil’s Den, a world completely unlike anything she’d ever known or probably even imagined, intimidated her.

And intrigued her.

She hated that Clarence was gone. She wished she’d never had to play this role. But she was honest enough with herself to admit that she liked the taste of freedom that living as a man had given her.

She wanted to see the Devil’s Den for herself, and not just for what she might uncover.

“We should visit the place,” she said before she lost her nerve. She tried to sound nonchalant, but ruined the effect by having to lick her dry lips. “Tomorrow night.”

Andrew’s eyes snapped to her. “We?”

“Yes, we.” Now that she thought about it, this plan made perfect sense. “Uncle Jarvis discreetly inquired after anyone who’d seen or talked to Clarence that night, but got nowhere. I think that’s because Clarence’s contact will only talk to him. I’m the one who has to seek him out.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’s not like I’d be in any danger. You’d be with me.” Claire realized the trepidation that usually accompanied her thoughts of stepping foot inside the Devil’s Den was absent, leaving only the curiosity behind. Andrew had always encouraged curiosity in her, whether intellectual or physical. She trusted him. To keep her safe, anyway. And not to judge her. The only thing she’d never trust him with again was her heart.

“No, Claire. Even if I was certain I could keep your person from harm—” He pressed his lips together, as if struggling to say or not say something. Then he shook his head. “It’s no place for a decent young woman.”

She nearly howled in vexation. Had she just thought he wouldn’t judge her? And how dare he thwart her best chance for learning something more about what had befallen Clarence because he thought he knew best regarding her moral well-being?

Had he forgotten that she wasn’t a decent young woman? No decent young woman would have welcomed his kisses and his roaming caresses all those years ago—not without a betrothal. And, good Lord, hadn’t she just been clutching him to her in the hackney earlier this evening?

She felt her cheeks flush hot.

No. Decent she was not. Not when she itched to pull Andrew to her again, right here in the vestibule. Not when she wished to explore the Devil’s Den for herself. Not when she burned to see exactly what was forbidden to her just by virtue of her sex and station.

Claire jutted her chin out in defiance. “Fine. Then I’ll go on my own.”

Andrew’s expression softened, even as his tone hardened. “No, you won’t.”

She glared at him, but his moss-green gaze returned only an intense tenderness. Andrew stepped close then, and raised his right hand to cup her cheek, his strong fingers caressing the underside of her jaw.

“I understand why you risk it, Claire,” he said. “All of it. Impersonating Clarence, going out night after night… If it had been one of my brothers, I’d dare the bastard to come after me, too.”

His eyes searched hers as his thumb began to caress her cheek slowly. Seductively.

His voice dipped low. “I even understand why…”

Claire felt as if her cravat had suddenly tightened on her throat, and her breath quickened. Could he see through her? Did he know the curiosity that burned within her? That had since the moment he’d awakened it all those years ago?

“Well,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth. “I understand.”

Claire swallowed.

“But it all stops tonight,” he said, releasing her.

Her cheek chilled quickly at the loss of his warmth.

“No more late night rambles. No more making yourself a target. And there’s no way in hell I’m taking you to the Devil’s Den, tomorrow night or any night.”