Tavia was quiet for much of their train journey, and Killian began to fear he’d made the wrong choice.

After the moments of bliss they’d shared and the first long, restful sleep he’d had in years, his mind had settled on inevitability. His fate. Octavia was right. Inheritance wasn’t something a man chose. He was the Duke of Strathmoor. As long as he lived, they would never pass the title to his weak cousin, Bertram, nor to the competent steward of the estate.

He cast a gaze in Tavia’s direction, and she offered him one of her soft, gentle grins that unlocked all the hidden parts of him. Now, with her, he had a reason to return. A reason to do what was right. She would expect nothing less of him. As would their queen.

“We’re halfway to the city, and you’ve been suspiciously quiet.” He swallowed a lump of anxiety. “Regrets?”

“No. Never.” Her hand settled into his, as soft and warm as one of her smiles. He liked that she didn’t wear gloves. That he could touch her and feel the steady, soothing jump of her pulse under his fingertips. “You didn’t say goodbye to the Teagues.”

“I did, love, but in my own way. Mrs. Teague loathes long goodbyes.” Squeezing her hand, he thought of all that he could do for the older couple as a duke. The savings from his time in the army had dwindled to a pittance, but he’d have access to the Strathmoor coffers soon. As well as the responsibility for growing them. “I doubt they’ll ever wish to leave Yorkshire, but I’ll offer the Teagues a place at Gravesend.”

“Is your estate very grand?” Tavia turned away from him, gazing out the window onto the sun-streaked fields rushing by the train car window.

Killian bent to kiss the tantalizing patch of freckled skin above the neckline of her gown. “Gravesend is a special place. Not a cold, imposing estate, but a house of snug rooms and byzantine hallways, secret doors, and hidden nooks. My grandfather tore down the original crumbling Tudor structure so he could design a puzzle box of a house. Just the place for a lady with an investigator’s instincts.” He realized he was rambling, eager to get her to look his way again.

She did, but the melancholy in her moss-gold eyes didn’t put him at ease. “I’ll never see Gravesend, Killian.”

“Of course you will.” There would be matters to settle in London, but now that he’d committed to this course, he was eager to return to his family’s seat in Sussex. To see Octavia there and show her all his favorite spots. To kiss her in every single one of them.

She let out a sigh. “You’re a duke. I’m a detective. Why will we even have cause to see each other again once we reach King’s Cross station?”

“Tavia, you’re the reason I’m here. The reason I’m returning to that stinking city at all.” Now his head was beginning to pound. “Do you not understand what you mean to me?”

Nibbling at her lower lip, she stared at him, emotion whirling in her eyes, but she offered no reply. Had he somehow misread all that had passed between them? The passion between them had been real, but did she feel nothing more?

“Will you serve the queen again?” There was a troubled hitch in her tone. “Go back to the army or”—they were alone in the first-class train carriage, but she lowered her voice—“work as an agent of the Crown?”

“Strathmoors have been serving in such a capacity for decades, but I made my decision clear to Her Majesty. I’ve retired. I won’t go back.” He pressed their clasped hands into her lap, but Tavia’s hold had loosened. As if she was preparing to let go of him. “I have other plans now,” he added, wishing he could make her understand. “Tavia, you are at the center of all those plans.”

Tightening her fingers around his, she gave a minute shake of her head and said softly, “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

But she would. She had given him hope and a motivation he’d never expected to find. He felt prepared to move mountains to have her.

Once he’d settled his affairs, put his estate in order, and made amends where he was able with friends and associates he’d abandoned for years, he would ask for her hand.

Though when she tipped her head to rest against his shoulder, he wondered if he possessed enough patience to wait. He wanted her now. With a carnal lust, yes. He’d take her on the train carriage bench if she’d let him. But he wanted more than a quick tumble. He wanted her. In his life. In his bed. As his duchess. As his wife.

Patience, man. First he needed to deserve her. Most of London loathed him, convinced he was a raving murderer or, at the very least, a disreputable scalawag. Even worse, some considered him a war hero. He didn’t wish to make Tavia suffer for his dreadful reputation. His only prayer was that he could rehabilitate his good name quickly.

Because, as he’d learned a few minutes after meeting her, parting from Tavia Fowler was impossible for him to do.

Killian watched as she entered the telegraph office, as if he was afraid she’d vanish if he let her out of his sight.

Lord Cecil had instructed her to wire him the moment she returned to town with the duke. Her message was short and to the point.

“How soon will it reach him?” she asked the telegraph operator.

“Within the hour, miss.”

“Very good.” After handing the man a coin, she started toward Killian and stopped midway. He frowned, and she tried for a reassuring look, despite her uncertainty about what came next.

Not only could she not bear to think of the moment when she must part from him once and for all, but Lord Cecil had never told her how to proceed once she’d returned with him. Was she expected to deliver Killian to Buckingham Palace? The guards arrayed around the structure made that seem a less than appealing prospect. Did Lord Cecil plan to meet her someplace and convey Killian to the queen? If so, he should have told her as much.

While she fretted, Killian approached. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure what to do now.”

“Well.” He came close enough for his boots to brush the hem of her skirt. “I wouldn’t refuse a kiss.”

The man was determined to melt her resistance, and it felt as flimsy as foolscap. “There were no instructions about where I should deliver you once we arrived in the city.”

“Ah.” He scanned the crowd as if looking for something he’d lost. “There’s the exit. I suggest we head that way, get in a carriage, and…”—he shrugged—“I could take you to the Strathmoor town house, though I suspect my odious cousin has taken up residence in my absence.”

“Shall we go to my office?” She was not going to his town house or any of the Strathmoor properties where she could torture herself by imagining him living as duke with a proper, pretty duchess by his side. Her single-room flat was too small to accommodate visitors, especially a man of Killian’s bulk, and her office wasn’t much bigger. Though at least she possessed more than one chair.

“Yes.” Judging by his smile, the prospect pleased him. “I’m curious about your private inquiry enterprise.”

“Wait here.” Slipping away, despite his grumble of protest, Tavia made her way back to the telegraph operator and sent a second brief message informing Lord Cecil where they would be.

Moments later, Killian secured a hansom cab and settled his hands around her waist to help her inside. The interior was intimate and snug, and he took full advantage, resting a hand possessively on her lap.

For so many years, no man had touched her, let alone shown her any interest. She told herself that his touch should not feel so familiar on such a short acquaintance. But every time Killian reached for her, there was no question of not responding. Everything in her responded to his nearness—her mind settled, her body warmed, and her heart gave its own little pang of yes. He’d said you’re mine, and the sentiment echoed in Tavia’s heart.

Logic built a tower of reasons they could never be—propriety, titles, society’s rules—but nothing would change what she felt inside.

Killian kept hold of her hand as they approached her building. He held her satchel while she dug inside for her key. The door snicked open, and her brow drew down in consternation. The room had shrunk since she’d left for Yorkshire. Or at least it felt smaller when Killian stepped inside.

“You’re very organized, Miss Fowler.” He riffled through a stack of documents she’d laid out for each of her current cases and the filing system she’d created in one of her father’s glass-fronted curio cases. Then he stared for a long while at a square of cork on the wall, where she’d pinned notes and reminders. Organization had come naturally to her father, but it was a skill she’d worked to master. Satisfaction warmed her inside at Killian’s praise.

He circled back behind her desk, inspecting every inch and object in the room, as if looking for clues to a fascinating mystery. Sweeping up the shawl from the back of her chair, he lifted the knitted fabric and sniffed. “Washing powder, rosewater perfume, and, somewhere, a bit of cinnamon.”

“Rosewater cold cream, thank you very much.” A friend had promised it would cause her freckles to fade. Liar.

“And the cinnamon?”

“I sprinkle the spice in my tea. One of Papa’s habits that I inherited.” Unbidden, her gaze turned to the drawer where she kept a photograph of him. “He was a man of unique tastes.”

“And unique skills.” Killian didn’t miss the cabinet filled with daggers, spyglasses, and other antique objects she’d inherited from her father’s collection. “You take after him in your cleverness and spirit. Too bad you couldn’t have met Dorian, my brother, or our father. They were honorable men like your father.”

He still spoke as if they were embarking on a union, as if all the obstacles between them were as formidable as a picket fence, and they could break through the rules of etiquette and propriety to be together. Despite every rational argument in her head, she wanted to believe him. If any man possessed the stubbornness and strength of will to accomplish what he set out to do, Major Killian Graves, Duke of Strathmoor, was that man.

After completing his perusal of her office, he came to stand in front her, slipping a hand around her waist.

“Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to kiss you in your place of business?”

“Probably.”

He bent his head and brushed his mouth against her cheek. “One kiss. Surely that wouldn’t be a scandal.”

One would never be enough, but Tavia stretched up onto the toes of her boots. Heaven help her, she was hopeless. One kiss? She would take however many of Killian’s kisses she could get.

The moment their lips touched, her office door burst open.

An enormous hulk of a man strode into the room, then another nearly his size, both wearing Metropolitan Police uniforms. They said nothing but immediately locked their gazes on Killian. The sharp clip of boot heels echoed in the hall behind them as Lord Cecil came into view.

“Your Grace, I must first congratulate you on slipping the snare for so long.” The older man cast Killian a grin before turning to Tavia. “And I must laud you, Miss Fowler, for a successful mission. I knew Octavius’s daughter would not disappoint.” Across his shoulder, he directed, “Arrest him, Constables.”

Tavia lunged forward and gripped Lord Cecil by the coat lapels. “You can’t do this.”

He stared down at her hands, tugged his coat from her grasp, and smiled. “On the contrary, my dear. You did this, and I thank you.”

Behind her, Killian complied too easily, arms in front of him, wrists held out for the burlier constable to enclose him in shackles.

“Stop this.” She stood toe to toe with the spare constable. “Please. You’re making a grave mistake.”

When the man nudged her aside, Killian shifted forward. “Don’t touch her.”

The policeman reached down for his truncheon, but Lord Cecil stepped into the fray.

“Come along nicely, Your Grace,” Cecil urged. “We’ll stop first at the palace before you’re housed in the Tower. You may make an appeal directly to Her Majesty. She’s gone to a good deal of trouble to secure your return.”

“He didn’t kill Neville Forsythe.” Tavia struggled to keep her voice steady, reasonable, not to shout at the top of her lungs as she longed to do.

Lord Cecil quirked a silver brow. “We have a witness prepared to testify to the contrary.”

“Impossible,” Killian growled, his fury barely leashed.

“Miss Caroline Bannister says she saw you and the row that ensued with Mr. Forsythe before his death.”

Killian shook his head until his long untamed hair hung across his brow. “I was in Yorkshire by then. I read of the rotter’s death in the papers, like everyone else.”

“Let’s allow the law to decide, shall we?” Lord Cecil straightened his lapels and lifted his chin before sailing from the room.

The constables pushed Killian along with far less grace.

“Wait!” She rushed to Killian’s side, wedging herself between him and one of the constables. Up on her toes, she cupped his cheek and kissed him. “I’m going to fix this.”

He didn’t kiss her back. His skin was feverish under her fingertips, but his gaze had gone cold, emotionless. “Forget about me, Miss Fowler. You did your job well.”

Behind her, the second constable reached over her head and shoved Killian forward. He let them push him out the door without another word. As if all the fight had gone out of him. As if he didn’t care about her, or his fate, anymore.

Lady Langham’s housemaid was kinder to Tavia than before her trip to Yorkshire. The girl’s eyes lit with recognition as she opened the door.

“I’m afraid I don’t have an invitation,” Tavia explained. “She isn’t expecting me, but I need to see Lady Langham if she’s at home.”

“Very well, miss.” The young woman led her to the same richly appointed drawing room and Tavia paced up and down its pretty floral rug while she waited. Every breath hurt. Her throat burned. She struggled to see anything but the hurt and betrayal in Killian’s eyes.

During the hour since he’d been taken from her, she’d visited a contact at the Metropolitan Police, seeking information about Neville Forsythe’s murder. The usually jovial desk sergeant turned dour and uncharacteristically tight-lipped on the matter, so she’d returned to her office and scoured Lord Cecil’s dossier for every scrap of information she could find about Forsythe and Miss Bannister. There were several clipped articles relating to the unsolved murder. At the bottom of the pile, one provided details about the Honorable Caroline Bannister, referring to her as Forsythe’s betrothed and mentioning that she was the daughter of Lord Newton of Pickering Square.

Anything to do with aristocrats and Tavia’s mind immediately turned to her countess friend. She had a plan and prayed Margaret would agree to assist her.

“Goodness, I didn’t expect you to call again so soon.” Margaret swept into the room, the rose pink silk of her gown swishing with every step. She reached for Tavia, squeezing her in a tight embrace. “I’m relieved to see you. You were so oddly mum before the start of your adventure. I feared there might be some danger involved.”

“I’m back safe and sound,” Tavia reassured, kissing her friend on the cheek.

“Was it dangerous?” Margaret gestured for Tavia to take a seat before settling into a plush chair.

“A bit.” The matter with Clive Forsythe had been particularly unpleasant, though the greatest danger of her trip had been to her heart. She’d explain that to Maggie, but not now when there was no time to waste.

“Tell me what happened. Your case? Is it resolved?”

Tavia took a deep breath that rushed out on a shaky exhale, as unsteady as the beat of her heart. “It’s not resolved, which is why I’m here. As usual, Maggie, I need your help.”

“I’m happy to assist you however I can.” Her welcoming smile ebbed away and she cast Tavia a look of genuine worry. “What’s troubling you, my dear?”

“Are you acquainted with Lord Newton?”

“Yes, of course.” Maggie nodded. “Georgianna Newton sponsors a ladies’ book club that I’ve attended a few times. And Richard and I have encountered the Newtons at several dinner parties.”

“They have a daughter named Caroline?”

“Yes, a sweet girl.” Maggie swallowed hard and fussed with the lacy collar of her gown. “Poor thing. Such a difficult time she’s had of it. Her betrothed was—” She clamped a hand over her mouth. “My goodness, Tavia. Were you investigating the Forsythe murder?” she whispered against her fingers.

“No, not exactly.” Tavia edged forward on her chair. “But I am now, and I need to speak to Caroline Bannister. Since you know the family, could you make an introduction?”

Maggie lowered her hand and shook her head slowly. “She rarely goes out. I can only imagine the poor creature is sick with grief.” Her smooth brow knitted in a frown under a wave of mahogany hair. “I’m not sure she would welcome a visit.”

“But we could try.” Tavia leaned forward until she nearly tipped off her seat. “Maggie, we must. I need to question her on a delicate matter. Having you there will make all the difference.” Caroline Bannister might hate Tavia for the inquiries she would need to make, the secrets she might have to reveal, but the truth was essential if she was going to prove Killian’s innocent.

Letting out a breath as if she was blowing fluff from a dandelion bloom, Maggie squared her shoulders and nodded. “Yes, I said I would help you, and I will. I’ll send a note to Caroline, inquiring about a convenient time to call.”

“Now.”

Maggie tipped her head. “Pardon?”

“We have to go now. I know I sound rash and desperate, and I’m both. A man’s liberty hangs in the balance.”

“What man?” Scooting forward and leaning toward Tavia, Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. “Have you found the murderer?”

Tavia bounced her boot heel against the thick carpet. “The man responsible for the crime is dead, but another has been arrested.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.”

No, it certainly didn’t. “Miss Bannister is key to freeing him. We must go and speak with her now.” Panic fluttered like a trapped bird in Tavia’s belly. She couldn’t bear to think of Killian in the Tower of London, not to mention the scandal that would stain the Strathmoor name if his arrest became public fodder. “If you cannot accompany me, I shall call on my own.” Tavia lowered her head and stared at the lush vines and pink blooms embroidered in the carpet. She was asking a great deal of her friend, and embroiling her in a potential scandal.

“There’s much you aren’t telling me, isn’t there?” Maggie asked quietly. “About the man who’s been arrested. He has something to do with your secret adventure, doesn’t he?” Without waiting for Tavia’s answer, Maggie stood and reached out her hand. “Come along, then. If we’re to call on Caroline, we should make a start.”

“Thank you.” Tavia clasped Maggie’s hand and they exchanged knowing grins. College had been full of moments when they’d gotten each other out of scrapes, whether academic or social, but those incidents paled in comparison to this.

Maggie led her into the vestibule, donned her cloak and hat, and directed a footman to bring the carriage around. Five minutes later they were on their way. Pickering Square wasn’t far from the Langham’s place on Grosvenor Square, and when they pulled up to the pavement, Tavia’s belly plummeted. How was she to persuade a young woman who’d lodged a false complaint against the man she loved?

She was about to find out.

“Here we are,” Maggie said as her coachman opened the door and lowered the step for them to disembark.

After a bit of gentle insistence, a house maid admitted them and asked them to wait until she determined whether Miss Bannister was at home. Tavia inspected the stairwell as they followed the maid into the drawing room. If Miss Bannister refused to see them, she was prepared to head upstairs and find her.

After a nerve-wracking quarter of an hour, a pretty golden-haired woman entered the drawing room. “Lady Langham? Your visit is most unexpected.” She cast a suspicious glance at Tavia. “And you’ve brought a guest.”

“Miss Octavia Fowler is one of my dearest friends, Caroline, and she was most anxious to make your acquaintance.” Maggie’s cheerful smile could melt the iciest heart, and Miss Bannister seemed to warm immediately.

“Sit, ladies,” she said, gesturing toward two matching settees. “I shall ring for refreshments.”

“Thank you for admitting us, Miss Bannister,” Tavia began, struggling to keep her tone calm and friendly. “If you don’t mind, I have some questions for you.”

“Do you?” The girl took a chair at the far end of the room and wrapped a long shawl around her like a knitted shield. “What questions, Miss Fowler?”

“I know about Lieutenant Hollis and how much he cared for you.”

The young woman’s blue eyes ballooned and her mouth fell open. She clutched at where her shawl was pulled up to her throat, but recovered quickly. “That is not a question, Miss Fowler.”

Tavia struggled not to blurt what was in her heart. She needed to formulate a strategy of questioning that might lead the young woman to explain why she’d accused an innocent man of a heinous crime. “Do you know who killed Neville Forsythe?”

“Tavia,” Maggie whispered. “A little more delicacy, my dear.”

“I…” Caroline’s voice faltered and she began shaking her head in denial. “I believe it was the Duke of Strathmoor.”

Maggie gasped. “The missing duke? What has he to do with this?”

Tavia stood and approached Caroline. She perched on the settee nearest the young lady’s chair. Quietly, she told her, “Lieutenant Hollis killed Mr. Forsythe. He wished to avenge you.” Tears began trickling down Caroline’s cheeks, but Tavia couldn’t stop now that she’d begun. “He loved you.”

“If he loves me, where is he? I haven’t heard from him in so long.”

Tears burned in Tavia’s eyes—for Lieutenant Hollis, for Caroline and what she’d endured, and for the truth she had to tell her. “He’s dead, Miss Bannister. He took his own life.” She spoke the words barely above a whisper and reached for Caroline’s hand.

The lady responded instantly, clasping Tavia’s fingers tightly. “I thought perhaps Neville or Clive told him what…happened, and he no longer wanted me.” After a moment of allowing her tears to flow, she reached up and swiped her face dry. “I’m grateful for the truth, Miss Fowler.”

“Will you return the same, Miss Bannister?”

Her pale brows pinched above her nose. “If I am able, yes.”

“The duke, Miss Bannister. You must retract your accusation.” Tavia squeezed the young woman’s hand before releasing her. “Why did you fabricate such an awful lie?”

“Caroline, are you all right?” Maggie approached and chafed the girl’s fingers. She’d gone pale and stiff, her eyes staring unblinking at a point on the wall.

“I fear what he’ll do to me,” she said on a ragged whisper.

“Who?” Maggie asked, kneeling before the girl and pressing a hand to her cheek.

“Clive Forsythe.” The name slipped from Tavia’s lips as the whole matter gelled in her mind. “He told you to lodge the accusation against Killian.”

Both women watched her, Maggie squinting in confusion, Caroline nodding in agreement.

“He is a monstrous man, Miss Fowler. Yesterday he arrived at my doorstep and threatened to tell my parents what Neville did to me. He said he’d tell the whole of London of my shame. The price of his silence was my testimony against Strathmoor.”

Tavia had never experienced the kind of assault Caroline had. Would forfeiting a man’s freedom be worth keeping such a secret? She wasn’t sure, but she had to convince Caroline to change her mind. “I am begging you to retract your accusation.”

Miss Bannister shot to her feet and sidestepped around Maggie. With her back to them, she hugged herself around the waist. After a long moment, she spoke into the fraught silence of the room. “You must give me a day or two,” she said, her voice raw. “I must find a way to tell my parents. My mother, at least. I don’t want her hearing whatever rumors he spreads.” She turned back to face them, her expression grim but resolute. “In some way, it will be a relief to tell the truth.” She focused her pale blue gaze on Tavia. “Then I will resolve the matter with Strathmoor.”