“A duke?”

“A soldier, a man who fought heroically in one of the most devastating battles our Empire has ever seen. He did not expect to inherit his title, you see, but he has. And now he must do his duty.”

A recalcitrant duke? Where was the mystery for her to solve? The only case she’d taken regarding a missing person had been for a doctor whose patient absconded after using a false name and not paying his bill. A duke, a man of power and influence far above Tavia’s social station, was another matter entirely.

“Your Majesty, I’m honored by your request—”

“But?” She edged her plump chin up an inch. Despite her round features and overall grandmotherly appearance, the action made her look fearsome and regal. Like the empress she was. “There is a but in your tone, Miss Fowler. We are not at all fond of prevarication. We do not take decisions lightly, nor were you summoned without due consideration of other measures we might employ. Be assured, many have already been exhausted.” With a wave of her hand, the queen’s bejeweled bracelets tinkled out a discordant tune. “Now, proceed with your but.”

Fear and doubt bubbled up, a leaden weight catching in Tavia’s throat. Swallowing against the tide, she continued, “I am inexperienced. Woefully so. I wish to carry out whatever duty you lay before me, but you must know London is brimming with investigators far more experienced than I.”

“Their experience is precisely why we require your assistance. ‘An ingénue with fresh methods of detection and a fiery determination.’ That is how you’ve been described, Miss Fowler.”

“By whom?” She’d be sure to request a letter of recommendation from them to share with every potential client.

“We keep our sources close.” The queen’s mischievous smile reminded Tavia of the look her father used to wear when he wished to keep his secrets to himself.

“Very well, ma’am.” Her next breath turned ragged, and her pulse thrummed in her veins. “I am at your service.” It was the same zing of anticipation she felt on the cusp of every new investigation, but magnified. Sharper. No endeavor she’d ever attempted compared to serving at the direct request of her monarch.

“Excellent.” Queen Victoria clasped her hands together and beamed. Gina raised her head, letting out a little yip of approval. “Lord Cecil will provide you with funds and all the details required to begin your journey. There will be an additional sum once the matter is resolved.”

He’d entered the room as stealthily as a soft-footed cat. Rising silently from a buttery-gold settee that blended with the damask wallpaper in the back of the room, Lord Cecil gestured toward the door they’d entered. “If you would accompany me, Miss Fowler.”

When Tavia approached, he cleared his throat dramatically and cast his gaze toward the queen. Immediately recognizing her error, Tavia stopped in her tracks, turned toward Queen Victoria, and dipped into a curtsy.

As Lord Cecil ushered her from the queen’s presence, the monarch’s strident voice called out.

“You are equipped to defend yourself, aren’t you, Miss Fowler?”

“Quite prepared.” Her father hadn’t only collected historic firearms, knives, and swords. He’d taught her how to wield each one, even teaching her a defensive martial art he’d learned on a trip to Japan. “Do you consider this mission dangerous?”

For a long-drawn-out moment, the queen offered no reply. Just stared into the waning fire in the grate. “Not the mission, but perhaps the man.” She spoke softly, barely audible in the high-ceilinged room. “Whispers of murder have lingered around Major Killian Graves, now the Duke of Strathmoor. No charges, you understand. Very little evidence. The merit of the rumors is yet to be determined, but Strathmoor has hidden himself away for nearly a year to avoid being called to account. Many have sought him on my behalf, and he has evaded them all.”

The fizz of excitement in Tavia’s veins began to chill. The queen wanted her to hunt a potential murderer? She’d definitely need one of her father’s revolvers for this trip. Perhaps two. And a few well-concealed knives.

“At the queen’s request, I’ve prepared a dossier that will assist you.” Lord Cecil approached and placed a thick leather folio in her hands. “I shall join you in the outer vestibule momentarily.” He closed the door on her, but a bit more politely than when they’d first approached the queen’s chambers.

Tavia balanced the folio on one arm and flipped through the documents. Newspaper clippings, pages from gossip rags, and official documents from the Home Office were neatly organized, seemingly chronologically. At the bottom of the pile, there was even a square of newsprint announcing the man’s birth. After several daughters, the whole of London society celebrated the arrival of the long-awaited heir to the Strathmoor dukedom. Then she noted the given name. The heir mentioned was not the duke she’d been sent to search for but his older brother.

Voices echoed from within the queen’s chamber, and Tavia leaned toward the door, pressing her ear to the lacquered panel.

“You’re certain of the Fowler girl’s abilities?” Queen Victoria sounded far more dubious than when she’d spoken to Tavia.

“Quite sure,” Lord Cecil assured. “She is Octavius Fowler’s daughter, after all.”

“I am aware of her parentage.” After a long pause, she added, “She’s quite young. Are we truly going to send an innocent into the lion’s lair?”

A duke, a murder suspect, and now a lion? Hardly a man Tavia looked forward to finding.

“Strathmoor will respond to her innocence.” Cecil cleared his throat meaningfully. “Though I trust whatever shred of honor he retains will prevent him from fully succumbing to Miss Fowler’s wiles.”

Wiles? Tavia wasn’t certain she possessed half the stratagems Lord Cecil gave her credit for.

“And that hair!” Queen Victoria interjected.

Tavia reached up and patted the knot of wayward red waves at the back of her head.

“Strathmoor will see her coming from miles away.” The queen let out a titter of laughter at the same moment Tavia’s brow knitted into a frown. “Advise her to cover those distinctive locks, won’t you?”

Tavia heard footsteps approaching and sidestepped away from the door, ducking her head to examine the dossier again.

A moment later, Lord Cecil emerged and glanced over her shoulder.

“He’s the second son of the late duke and duchess,” he said quietly, noting the clipping under her fingers. “The first Strathmoor heir died in a tragic carriage accident just four years after assuming the title.”

“Are those circumstances relevant to the new duke’s reclusiveness?”

“Possibly, though the Forsythe matter must be considered the prime cause for his departure from all good society.”

Tavia sifted the newspaper clippings until the name Forsythe caught her eye. STRANGE DEATH IN BELGRAVIA, read the headline. A Neville Forsythe had been found, shot, in the mews of his Belgravia town house and later expired from his injury.

“Was the duke involved in this man’s shooting?”

Lord Cecil offered her an almost sympathetic look, the first sign of warmth she’d seen from the man. “That question remains unanswered. All the details we have are there in the dossier. Review the documents during your train journey.” He approached the door that led to the carriage circle and stopped, indicating she should precede him.

A light two-seat vehicle had been brought round, a far more modern design than the lumbering growler that had delivered them. After assisting her into the carriage, Lord Cecil braced a hand on the open window frame. “Safe journey, Miss Fowler. I urge you to succeed, and quickly. This is a matter of utmost concern to Her Majesty. Employ whatever means you must to convince the man to return to London—disguise, falsehood, coercion.”

Tavia leaned toward the window, just stopping herself from clasping his hand. She had so many questions. He hadn’t given her enough time. According to her fob watch, less than an hour had passed since he’d first entered her office. Her whole life had been upended in those fifty minutes.

“How shall I coerce him? May I say the queen commands his return? Is there any living family member who might require his presence for a birth or wedding?”

“Consult the documents. All you need is there.” Lord Cecil aimed a long, bony finger at the dossier clutched in her lap. With a tap on the body of the carriage, he indicated the coachman should depart. As the traces jangled and the horses began trotting from the inner court, she heard Lord Cecil shout one final bit of advice.

“And, Miss Fowler, do consider a hat.”

“I must speak to Lady Langham.” Tavia tried to keep the desperation she felt from her tone, softening her request with a friendly grin.

The Langham housemaid, a young woman she’d never met on previous visits, seemed supremely unimpressed. “Expecting you, is she, miss?”

“Not expecting me, but if you’ll inform her that I’ve come to call, I’m sure she’ll see me.” During their years together at boarding school, they’d become close friends. Tavia worried their camaraderie would alter once Margaret married an earl, but she’d remained the same loyal, steadfast friend.

The housemaid who’d admitted her continued to eye Tavia dubiously while showing her into the drawing room. “Wait here, miss, if you please.”

While she waited, she perused the dossier Lord Cecil had given her. A pocket stitched in the back contained several photographs. In the first, dozens of eyes stared back at her. The image featured a group of men in military dress. One man’s face was circled, as if someone had used a knife to incise the photograph but decided to leave his image in place. “GRAVES” was printed above his head, and Tavia knew she was staring into the face of the man she’d been sent to retrieve—Major Killian Graves, now the Duke of Strathmoor.

Another document listed his eyes as blue in shade, but they must have been the lightest of blues, like a clear winter sky. They glowed out at her from the photograph. Holding her. Capturing her. Every other face around his blurred. Pain lurked beyond those haunted eyes, written in the pinched lines between his brows and the hard set of his sensual mouth.

“Darling Tavia!” Margaret’s lilting voice filled the drawing room. “I planned to call on you tomorrow. It’s been too long since I’ve heard of your investigatory adventures.”

Tavia stood and embraced her friend, who deposited a kiss on each cheek. “That is, in part, why I’ve come to call.”

Lady Langham lifted a finger to her lips and rushed to close the door. After planting herself against the paneled wood, she demanded in a whispery tone, “Tell me everything.”

“I’m afraid I can’t this time.”

“Of course you can.” Margaret swept forward, seated herself on the pretty chintz-covered settee, and patted the space next to her. “Richard is off on a trip to Bristol to see about a new business venture, and I’m sorely in need of a diversion.”

Tavia gave one tight shake of her head. “I’m sorry, but I must be utterly discreet in this matter.”

Her friend’s eyes rounded. “Goodness, you sound dreadfully serious. “Is it a…”—she peered over each shoulder, as if she feared a servant might be hiding in a corner—“a murder?”

“No.” There was the matter of Neville Forsythe’s death, but that mystery would have to wait. “I’ve been asked to find someone.” At a little flip in her belly, Tavia wondered if perhaps that admission was revealing too much.

Margaret screwed up her mouth the way she’d been apt to do when pondering a difficult mathematics problem when they were at school. “This someone has gone missing and you must be mum about the details? Is it anyone I know? Is that why you won’t tell me?”

“I don’t believe you’re acquainted with him.” Though as a countess and one of the most popular hostesses among London’s upper crust, she’d probably heard of the Strathmoor duke.

“A him?” Her brow furrowed to match the contemplative moue puckering her lips. Then she jerked back as if a terrible thought struck. “A nobleman?”

“I truly can’t say.” Tavia shook her head again.

“You don’t need to.” Margaret smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve never been terribly good at fibbing. So, a nobleman…who’s gone missing.” She tapped her bottom lip with a slim index finger.

“Stop guessing,” Tavia said with as much mirth as she could muster. “I’ve only come to borrow a few items.”

No one could mistake the disappointment in Margaret’s dark eyes, but she nodded and offered Tavia a soft grin. “You know I’ll assist you in any way I’m able.”

“Thank you, Maggie.” A lightness filled Tavia’s chest. She could do this. Find this reluctant duke and return him to the queen. Whatever happened then—with his fate or the resolution of Neville Forsythe’s murder—was none of her concern. Only fulfilling the task put to her by the queen. “I need to borrow some clothing.”

“Gowns? You’re welcome to keep a few. I have some I’ve worn for two seasons and thought to donate to charity. They’re still in fine shape.”

“I was hoping you might possess a traveling gown. I spend my days in wool skirts and shirtwaists and have been using father’s overcoat when it rains.” To confront a duke, it seemed something a bit more fashionable was in order. “Never having traveled much, I’ve nothing that will suit for a train journey and no time to visit a shop.”

“Of course, but why such haste?”

Tavia pressed her lips together and shook her head again.

“Oh, I wish you could tell me what this is all about.” Margaret reached up to pat the thick waves of glossy brown hair artfully arranged atop her head. “A journey sounds like the perfect cure for my boredom.” Scooting forward on the settee, she pressed her hands to her knees and cast Tavia a mischievous grin. “I don’t suppose you could take me with you.”

“Not this time.” If only she could. Margaret knew the etiquette of the aristocracy far better than she did—honorifics and titles and who should bow to whom.

“Then we should go upstairs and prepare you for your journey.” She swept toward the door. “Any particular color?” She glanced over her shoulder at Tavia. “A subtle green would match your eyes.”

“What about a hat?” Tavia asked, recalling the queen’s comment. “A large hat.”

Margaret smiled. “I have dozens of those, and Richard won’t miss any of them. He’s forever insisting I reduce my hat collection.” As she passed the same maid who’d admitted Tavia near the foot of the stairs, Maggie instructed the girl to bring a tea tray up to her sitting room.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to stop for tea.” Tavia felt awful for offering nothing when she was forever asking Lady Langham for help, but Lord Cecil had provided her with a ticket for a train departing within the hour.

Margaret’s face fell, but she recovered quickly. “Next time, then. Come let’s get upstairs and find you a hat and gown to suit your adventure.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my friend.” She smiled down as they ascended the stairs. “Just promise you’ll come back and tell me every little morsel of this deliciously mysterious case once it’s resolved.”