It was the morning after the wedding. Rhys and Heath had settled in for a long wait in the drawing room of Simon’s residence. The two men had arrived separately, on foot, and met on the pavement. Only after Heath had made a detailed study of the premises had they slipped through the back passage from the stables into the house. The interior had an abandoned sense, but for the aroma of fresh pastry that wafted from the servants’ hall.

“I assume we are safe from spies,” Rhys remarked wryly as the butler showed them to the ground floor.

“Spies, dissidents, assassins.” Heath circled the drawing-room carpet. “Still, if I were you, I might check behind the sofa in case a debutante is lying in wait. I understand you are a popular gentleman about town these days. Eligible rakes are all the rage.”

The exchange had taken place two hours ago. A footman served tea with cheese and biscuits. Then a light luncheon of small beer and cold roast turkey. Coffee and pound cake. Sherry and more biscuits. Heath unbuttoned his vest.

“It’ll be dinner before you know it,” Rhys said, stretching his legs out spider-fashion over a footstool. “We shouldn’t have come. Not the day after they were wed. It’s damn gauche. I feel like a poacher waiting here in the dark. We weren’t invited.”

Heath scribbled something in the small journal balanced on the arm of his chair. “I promised Simon I would personally deliver any news to him that I receive. When I receive it.”

“How can you see to write? It’s like a closet with all the curtains drawn.”

“Months of practice.” Heath glanced up blankly. “Writing in a cave, in dirt, the back of a wagon, a church cellar.”

“God. I wonder that you kept your sanity.”

“God, indeed,” Heath said. “I had a Bible. I challenged myself to translate it into five languages. It kept me occupied, and sane, although I am still working on the Portuguese version.” He tucked his journal into his coat pocket and came to his feet as Simon appeared in the doorway. “Well, here’s our wayward duke now. We aren’t intruding on your privacy, are we?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Simon entered the room and crossed to the massive sideboard to pour himself a drink. “Have you been fed and watered?”

“To the gills,” Rhys said. “How is my sister?”

Simon raised his glass. “Splendid.”

“It’s not like her to stay in bed all day.”

Simon choked down a swallow of sherry. “She didn’t sleep much the night before the ceremony. Supposedly she stayed up chatting about her wedding trousseau or something of that nature. Then there was all the excitement of our escape.” He coughed to clear his voice. “Is that what you came here to find out? She is still very much alive.”

Rhys crossed his arms. “Aunt Glynnis asked me to remind her to eat. My sister forgets her meals when she becomes overexcited.”

Simon merely nodded. Ravenna had consumed only three Spanish oranges, a half-bottle of champagne, and a few sips of wine since last night. And she had been overexcited. So had he. He chose not to confess this intimate tidbit to his brother-in-law. He respected Rhys’ protective inclinations, but he was Ravenna’s husband and gladly assumed the responsibility of her.

He would also like to return to their bed. The memory of sinking inside her sweet body filled him with an impatience he battled to hide. He was not in a mood for a man-to-man. He turned to Heath. “Do I understand you have some information for me?”

“I believe so,” Heath said. “It came from one of Harriet’s criminal relatives.”

Simon didn’t bother to question the reliability of Heath’s sources in the London underworld. Ravenna’s sister-in-law, the former Harriet Gardner, once known as the “Duchess of St. Giles,” had been born and raised in the lawless rookeries. Some of Harriet’s family and former cohorts still lived in the slums. It was logical for Heath to maintain connections in the metropolis’s dark pulse.

“To the point,” Heath said, peering through the curtains to the garden. “It appears that no one known in the stews was paid to kill you.”

Simon put his glass on the sideboard. “That narrows the search to -- almost anyone.”

Heath smiled in grim accord. “The guests at Grayson’s party have all been quietly investigated. None of them seem particularly motivated to murder you, either, but several ladies expressed disappointment that you’ve been snatched off the marriage mart.”

Simon lifted his brow. “No remarks about Ravenna?”

Heath gave a short laugh. “Not that would be spoken in my presence.”

“What became of the old viscount Sir David cuckolded in the temple?” Rhys asked.

“As far as I know,” Heath said, “he has decided to forgive his wife’s infidelity. I didn’t think it was my place to encourage him to a different perspective.”

“And your overall opinion of the situation?” Simon inquired.

“You’re wise to conclude that another attempt will be made on your life. It’s improbable that a drunken prank-player sneaked through the guarded gates of a Park Lane house and climbed a tree to misfire his gun. Unless, of course, he had some personal grievance against Achilles. Stranger acts have occurred. That, of course, doesn’t explain the invitation you received. This isn’t to say you should never step outside again, but vigilance is warranted.”

Rhys gave Simon an evil grin. “No more trysts for you.”

“I suppose you’ll volunteer for double duty,” Simon retorted.

Heath laughed. “Carry on with your inquiry, Simon,” he said. “Stay on the alert. And don’t taunt Bruxton. I am gathering reports of his activities before and after Susannah’s death.”

“Taunt him?” Simon could not keep the contempt from his voice. “I should like to asphyxiate him with my bare hands.”

“Which you won’t,” Heath said. “Yet.”

“I know that he is low on funds,” Simon went on more dispassionately. “He lost most of Susannah’s dowry on the Stock Exchange early in their marriage.”

“What did he do with the rest of the money?”

“He made repairs on his estate,” Simon replied. “Draining the ponds, patching the ancestral Norman Chapel. Restoring walls to discourage intruders. And he bought political supporters.”

“An earldom requires funds,” Heath said. “I have not come across any evidence that he is a blatant philanderer or gambler, except for his horse races.” He backed away from the window. “You are acquainted with Mrs. Audrey Watson, the courtesan, aren’t you?”

“I’ve dined at her house,” Simon admitted. “I once reserved one of her rooms to entertain friends, but nothing else.”

“I propose we pay her a visit,” Heath said. “She’s a good friend and a woman well-acquainted with the sexual habits of the aristocracy. She might not be eager to reveal any secrets, but she does owe me a favor.”

Simon frowned. “I heard that Bruxton is in the market for a house suitable for a lady.”

“He’s in the market for a woman,” Heath said. “A mistress, I believe. Not a wife.”

“I heard the same,” Simon commented. “I suppose the fact does not make him a murderer. I saw no signs, however, that he went into deep mourning for Susannah.”

“Some men are unable to show grief,” Rhys said. “My brothers were outwardly unmoved when our father died. I did not shed a tear in public when Liam was killed, but I mourned him all the same.”

“The news of my brother’s death changed our family forever,” Heath said in a subdued voice. “For a while I thought it would tear us apart, but now we are closer. In any event, we need more information. None of what we’ve found proves one thing or another. Without a witness to Susannah’s death, we are forced to take Bruxton at his word. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a wife at home who is expecting me for tea with company. And your bride must be wondering where you’ve gone.”

Rhys lingered behind as Heath took his leave. “Have you told her yet about the proposal?”

Simon glanced back at the half-open door. He was anxious to return to Ravenna before she came downstairs. What manner of fool left his bride alone the day after the most meaningful night of their lives? Once she saw her brother, there was no predicting how long it would take to pry them apart.

“No,” he said, caught between affection and exasperation for Rhys. “I haven’t found the right moment to tell her much of anything yet. Not even the names of our dogs.”

“Forget I mentioned the subject,” Rhys said in an undertone. “Although I have to admit I understand why Liam refused you.”

“Do you? It’s the day after the wedding, Rhys. Rather late to voice your hesitation.”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Rhys said. “I’m your ally. Liam didn’t always make the wisest decisions. I would have accepted your proposal.”

“I wasn’t asking for your hand,” he said. “It’s all done and past.”

“That brings me to another matter,” Rhys said after a cautious pause. “The one that Heath just brought to our attention. There’s no delicate way to ask -- do you frequent a brothel?”

Exasperation won out. “Didn’t I just explain a minute ago that I only dined there?”

“I am not judging your actions. We are both men of the world.”

“You will not be of this world if you cast aspersions on my character.”

“I’m not starting a quarrel, Simon. In fact, I’m confident that you, as the man married to my sister, will not have any desire to seek out a courtesan. I would have to duel you if you did.”

“Are you finished?”

“If Ravenna doesn’t kill you first.”

“This is how rumors start and reputations are destroyed,” Simon said. “For the last time, I do not frequent Mrs. Watson’s house. Not for the reasons you think.”

“There’s no need to shout,” Rhys said awkwardly. “I was trying to broach the matter with discretion.”

Simon turned at the patter of slippers outside the door. Rhys fell immediately silent, looking abashed as his twin breezed into the room, her face puzzled. She looked fetching in a lemon-silk gown with her hair loosely captured in a thick plait. Simon wanted to take her in his arms and kiss away her frown.

“What are you doing here, scamp?” she asked her brother. With a veiled look at Simon that sent fire through his veins, she slipped around him to kiss Rhys’ hard-set jaw. “Were you worried I wouldn’t survive the night?”

“Of course not,” Rhys said unconvincingly. “I didn’t give the matter a thought.”

She glanced again from him to Simon with a strained smile. “Why do I sense that you are hiding something from me?”

Simon hesitated. “Heath promised to keep me apprised of Bruxton’s activities.”

“I see,” she said, eyeing her brother closely. “Then why are you here?”

“To remind you that Aunt Glynnis is giving a supper party at Griff’s townhouse Friday next to celebrate your return from honeymoon. She is moving there this week.”

“She could have sent me an invitation,” Ravenna said skeptically.

Rhys reached down to the sofa for his high black hat. “She was afraid it would get lost in the post. Or that you might have forgotten about it in the recent excitement. I’ll accept for you both, shall I?”

Simon stole a look at his wife. Her resigned expression intimated she knew the supper invitation had been an excuse for Rhys to check on her. Simon wasn’t offended. It never hurt to have another guardian angel, or devil, on one’s side, although he wondered if his reputation was worse than he realized. The Boscastles were a large brood. If every family member assumed the task of looking in on Ravenna, she and Simon might be receiving company until Christmas.