Rex couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He had her backed into a corner, and she wanted to negotiate? She had gumption, he’d give her that. “An alternative proposition? Is that a joke?”

“Not at all. You know my secret.” She paused, her gaze narrowing on him, a look he was coming to know well. “Though that is only because you goaded me into revealing it.”

He donned an air of false modesty, brushing at an imaginary speck of dust on his waistcoat, smiling a little. “Yes, that was rather a neat trick, if I do say it myself.”

If his words aggravated her, she didn’t show it. “Either way,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “telling that secret to yet another person presents a risk I am not willing to take.”

“That’s a pity.” His smile vanished, and he gave her a hard, level stare across the desk. “Since it’s not as if you have a choice.”

“My only choice,” she went on, ignoring his point completely, “is to convince you not to carry out your threat to expose me.”

He had no intention of carrying out his threat, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. “I doubt there’s anything you can say to convince me.”

“I think perhaps there is. You see, I’m prepared to offer you something that would make keeping mum worthwhile.”

She hadn’t meant her words to be suggestive, but Rex couldn’t resist speculating on some provocative possibilities. He glanced over her, his gaze skimming the long, delicate column of her throat, moving past the prim collar of her shirtwaist, over the gentle swell of her bosom, pausing at her absurdly tiny waist. Though the desk blocked any further study of her body, that didn’t matter, for he already knew her shape. He’d had plenty of opportunity to form that picture the other night during their dance, and as he envisioned the slender hips and long legs that were presently hidden from his view, as he remembered the brief, tantalizing brush of his arm against the small of her back, the baser side of his masculine nature began imagining some of the naughtier means of persuasion she could employ, and his body began to burn.

But when he looked up again into her face, the delicate flush of pink in her cheeks told him she’d perceived the direction of his thoughts—at least to the extent an innocent lamb like her could do—and reminded him that the delicious picture forming in his mind had no chance whatsoever of becoming reality. And despite her opinion of his character, he was—sadly—a gentleman, which meant even if she were of a mind to offer such things, he could not accept. Innocent young ladies were not his line of country. Shoving down reprobate images of what Clara Deverill looked like without her clothes, he spoke. “What exactly are you offering?”

“A job, Lord Galbraith. I’m offering you a job.”

That was so unexpected, so absurd, and so damnably different from what he’d been imagining that Rex couldn’t help a laugh. “Doing what, in heaven’s name?”

She gave a shrug of nonchalance, but he could see the tension in her slim shoulders, and he knew she wasn’t as nonchalant as she wished to appear. “I want to hire you to write the Lady Truelove column for me.”

This was sliding from absurdity into farce. He laughed again, confounded. “Now I know you’re joking.”

His amusement seemed to vex her, for a tiny frown knit her brows. “I’m quite serious. I don’t see why you think I’m not.”

He took one more glance over her body with a sigh of profound regret. “Let’s just say my mind was traveling in a wholly different direction.”

The blush in her cheeks deepened to absolute scarlet. “I am making you a bona fide offer of employment. It would only be temporary, until my sister returns from her honeymoon. She is expected home in about two months’ time.”

“She married in March, if memory serves. Four months is quite a long honeymoon.”

“You have no idea,” she agreed with a sigh. “Once she returns, she will find someone to take charge of the column on a permanent basis. In the interim, I’d like to hire you to do it.”

She really was serious. He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face, thinking a moment. “Setting aside the fact that I have no need to earn my living—thank God—why would you want someone else to do it for you? And even more baffling, why choose me, of all people?”

She made a rueful face, her wide mouth twisting a bit and her button nose wrinkling up. “You find that odd, I take it?”

“Odd? Hell, no. I find it incomprehensible. Aside from the fact that I loathe newspapers and can’t imagine working for one, you think I’m a cad, a disreputable rakehell. Why,” he added, driven by curiosity, “would you want me to take on the task of penning advice to the lovelorn?”

“Because I’m no good at it.”

He laughed at that nonsensical admission, but before he could remind her of her well-established success, she rushed on, “You, however, have a certain insight, shall we say, into matters of romance. I am prepared to employ you for that insight. In a literary sense,” she added as he raised an eyebrow.

“And you think I would find such an offer of interest? I am a gentleman, Miss Deverill—”

He was interrupted by a derisive snort that told him what she thought of that contention.

“Gentlemen,” he went on, emphasizing the word, “don’t have jobs.”

“You’d be surprised, Lord Galbraith, if you knew the number of gentlemen who work for newspapers. I know of at least five who secretly write articles for our competitors under assumed names. And at least a dozen have given their endorsement to various products advertised in our newspaper, recommending everything from shaving soap to patent medicines in exchange for a fee.”

“Then perhaps you should hire one of those good gentlemen?”

“Why should I do so, when I have you?”

“You don’t ‘have me,’ as you put it.” Even as he made that point, he saw her straight brows arch as if disputing that contention, and when he looked into those dark eyes of hers, he felt a sudden, vague uneasiness. “I’m the one with the leverage here, Miss Deverill,” he said, feeling the need to remind her of that point.

“Are you?” She straightened in her chair, and with that abrupt move, something changed between them, something that only deepened his uneasiness.

“My leverage,” he went on, ignoring her question, “would vanish if I were to accept this offer. If I took on the job of being Lady Truelove, I could hardly start revealing to our acquaintance that you are she.”

“Yes,” she agreed, sounding quite pleased by the prospect. “Exactly.”

“So that is your true intent in offering me this position? Buying my silence? What makes you think I would agree?”

“Because it’s a winning arrangement for both of us. I am prepared to pay you a generous salary, and your perpetual lack of money is well-known. You will be obliged to keep my secret, as you have already appreciated, and I can stop writing an advice column I am obviously ill-equipped to compose—”

“Why obviously?” he cut in, diverted for the moment. This was the second time she’d disparaged her abilities as the famous columnist, and he couldn’t help wondering why. “You’re quite good at the job, from what I hear. The column is wildly popular.”

She squirmed a little in her chair, making him even more curious. “Why would you disparage yourself in this way?” he asked. “Surely your success speaks for it—”

“I’m far too busy nowadays to write it properly,” she said, cutting him off. “Now that the season has begun, I wish to move more in society, and with all the other duties of the newspaper that require my attention while my sister is away, I wish to hand off the task of writing Lady Truelove to someone else.”

“Perhaps that’s true,” he conceded, “but that’s not what you first said. You said, ‘I’m no good at it.’”

“You were right,” she muttered, rubbing four fingers over her forehead. “You are a good listener.”

He didn’t reply. He simply waited, and since he knew or had guessed most of the facts already, she capitulated with a sigh. “My sister used to write it. She prepared enough columns to cover the time she originally anticipated she’d be away, but then, she and Torquil decided to extend their honeymoon, and she cabled me, asking that I take it over until she returns.”

“In addition to managing the paper? That’s a lot to ask.”

“Since my mother died, my sister has always protected and cared for me. In return, I am happy to do whatever I can for her at any opportunity. But when it comes to Lady Truelove—” She broke off, lifting her hands in a hopeless gesture, then letting them fall to her desk. “I am utterly lost. Offering advice to the lovelorn,” she added with a little laugh, “is hardly my forte.”

He studied her face for a moment, noting its lack of conventional prettiness. No rosebud mouth here, no Grecian nose, no delicately-arched eyebrows. But it was an agreeable face for all that, with its own unique charm, though he doubted the young chaps gadding about town ever halted their gazes on her long enough to see it. She wasn’t, as he knew from his first cursory glance at her, the sort to draw masculine attention. “I see,” he said gently. “And how does your father feel about having someone else assume Lady Truelove’s mantle?”

“My father?” She stiffened, frowning, looking suddenly prickly. “What does he have to do with it?”

“He is the publisher, is he not? He is the owner?”

“Actually, no. He was, but his health has put paid to any involvement in the running of the Weekly Gazette. My sister now owns the paper, along with my brother, Jonathan. He was supposed to come back from America and take over, but circumstances forbade, and as a result, I have been obliged to assume the position of publisher until my sister returns. So, you see, it is within my purview to offer you this position. And with all my social obligations, I would be quite relieved to delegate Lady Truelove to someone else. This would also work to your advantage, since as I said, I’m prepared to pay generously. Say . . . one hundred pounds per column?”

The amount rather surprised him. A hundred pounds a week totaled more than his quarterly allowance from the estate—when his father was of a mind to pay it—and it was nearly double what Petunia was so generously providing him while he and his father were on the outs. He didn’t know anything about how writers of newspaper piffle were compensated, of course, but it seemed a rather high sum. It was also an indication of how desperate she was to keep her secret safe.

Rex, however, had no desire to be an advice columnist, nor did circumstances require him to do so. “That is quite generous,” he agreed, “but whatever the salary, it’s hardly an incentive for me, since despite my irresponsible spending habits, I don’t need the money. My aunt has been kind enough to provide me an income.”

“Yes, well, about that . . .” She paused, giving a cough, and the uneasiness inside Rex grew stronger. “It’s clear that what you said the other night was true,” she went on, reaching for the newspaper on top of the stack at one corner of her desk. “You really don’t read the papers, do you?”

Rex frowned at this seeming change of subject. “What does my lack of interest in newspapers have to do with anything?”

Instead of replying, she opened the paper in her hand and began flipping through the pages to locate one page in particular. When she found it, she folded the sheet back, turned the paper around, and held it out to him. “You might want to reconsider your aversion to the daily news.”

Taking the paper from her outstretched hand, he looked down, his gaze honing at once on the prominent headline at the top of the page.

He read it three times, and yet, the words were slow to sink in. And the words after it, as he skimmed through them, seemed little more than a jumble of journalistic insinuations about his spendthrift ways, an accurate reference to his unfavorable opinion of marriage, and a tiresome account of his parents’ miserable lives. Following it, however, was an unvarnished denunciation of him by his aunt, due to his “wild recent behavior and unrestrained manner of living,” and a declaration from her that until he married, settled down, and became a responsible fellow and a credit to his family name, he would not be receiving another penny from her. In addition, she refused to be responsible for any of his debts, past, present, or future.

Oh, Auntie Pet, he thought in dismay, what have you done?

Even as he asked himself that question, he remembered his aunt’s visit this morning and his butler’s words about it.

She has expressed the wish to discuss with you the matter of your recent conduct.

Why, he wondered with a grimace, was hindsight always so damnably clear? He ought to have seen Auntie this morning instead of putting her off. His decision not to receive her had obviously miffed her enough to warrant this declaration to the evening papers. He ought to have endured the inevitable lecture, made his abject apologies, declared that honor prevented him from offering explanations, and assumed full responsibility for the entire disgraceful evening. That might have mollified her and prevented her from taking such drastic and public action.

Although, he reflected, his gaze scanning the article again, any expression of penitence and desire to atone on his part might not have changed a thing. The report here made it plain that Auntie was not above using his conduct at the ball as an excuse to bring him to heel about matrimony, and anything he might have said this morning might well have fallen on deaf ears anyway.

Whether he could have averted this disaster by seeing his aunt earlier today might be open to question, but when Rex looked up from the newspaper in his hand to the girl sitting opposite, he knew one thing.

He did not have Clara Deverill backed into any sort of corner.

Rex drew a deep breath and put the paper on her desk. She may have called his bluff, but he’d be damned before he’d show his cards. “Thank you for your offer, Miss Deverill, but despite what appears in the newspapers, I have neither the desire nor the need to accept employment.”

Her expression did not change, but he wasn’t fooled, for he saw the dismay in those expressive eyes.

“Then there’s nothing more to be said.” She swallowed hard and lowered her gaze to her desk. “I shall expect the news of Lady Truelove’s identity to begin appearing in the gossip columns of our competitors within a day or two.” She stood up, and as he followed suit, she looked at him, squaring her shoulders. “The reports will be gleeful, I’m sure.”

Rex noted the proud lift of her chin and felt the sudden, inconvenient prick of guilt. She’d precipitated all this, he reminded himself, trying to ignore the bleakness in her eyes and the whispers of his conscience. Because of her, he was in a fine mess, damn it all, and he’d have the devil of a time getting out of it. Served her right to dance in the wind for a bit, to spend the next few days poring anxiously over the newspapers before she realized the truth.

“Good day, Miss Deverill,” he said, bowed, and turned to leave.

He got as far as the door. His hand on the knob, he stopped, gave an aggravated sigh, and looked at her over one shoulder. “Despite what you think of me, I am not the sort of man who would blackmail a woman—with knowledge of her secrets, or anything else. I have no intention of telling anyone about Lady Truelove, and never did have.”

She stared, her pale pink lips parting in astonishment. “You were bluffing?”

“Yes. To no avail, it seems.” He turned away and yanked open the door. “What the hell I’ll tell my aunt and my friend,” he added under his breath as he walked out, “I have absolutely no idea.”

Upon leaving Clara Deverill’s offices, Rex instructed his driver take him to Petunia’s house in Park Lane, and as his carriage carried him back across town, he considered how he might be restored to Auntie’s good graces. He’d have to offer an apology for his conduct, of course, something he’d intended to do anyway. He’d also have to promise future good behavior, and that, he knew could be problematic. And though he didn’t think she would seriously hold an income over his head to force him to marry, he knew he’d be required to at least put himself fully at her disposal for the remainder of the season, accepting whatever social engagements she deemed suitable as she shoved marriageable girls in his face.

By the time his carriage reached his aunt’s residence, Rex had reconciled himself to three months of balls and dinner parties and countless conversations with young debutantes, but he was given no opportunity to make that sacrifice, for upon inquiry of Auntie’s butler, he was informed that she was not receiving.

Rex feared he knew what that meant. “Not receiving any callers, Bledsoe?” he asked with a wink, smiling on the outside, bracing himself on the inside. “Or just misbehaving great-nephews?”

Auntie’s butler was the stuffy, old-fashioned sort who gave nothing away. His countenance remained coldly impassive. Fortunately for Rex, Bledsoe’s unwillingness to part with information didn’t matter too much, for he knew where Auntie would be this evening. Adding abject groveling to the list of what would be required of him, Rex handed over his card to the butler and departed for home to change into evening clothes.

He’d barely stepped across his own threshold, however, before he was presented by his footman with a new and far more serious problem than anything he’d faced yet today.

“The Countess of Leyland has called, my lord.”

Rex froze in the act of handing over his hat, staring at the servant in horror. “My mother called here?”

“Yes, my lord. She’s in the drawing room.”

“Good God!” He shoved his hat into the footman’s arms. “Mama, in my drawing room?”

“Yes, my lord. She said it was most urgent she speak with you at once, and Mr. Whistler showed her into the drawing room to await your return.”

“Damn Whistler for a fool,” he muttered as he smoothed his tie and gave his waistcoat a tug. “That man has always had a soft spot for Mama. But then,” he added as he passed the footman and started for the stairs, “most men do.”

Making a mental note to reiterate to all his servants who was and who was not allowed to cross his threshold and that his dear mama was most decidedly in the latter category, Rex ascended the stairs to the first floor. With a quick raking of his hands through his hair, he entered the drawing room.

As he watched his mother turn from the window, it struck him anew that no one who ever saw them together could ever doubt that they were mother and son. Their coloring and features were strikingly similar, a fact which explained, he had no doubt, his father’s resentful temper whenever he was in the old man’s vicinity.

“Mama, what the devil are you doing here?”

She came toward him, hands outstretched. “Rex, my dear,” she began, then stopped, her hands falling to her sides, staring at him in horror. “Good heavens, your eye!”

“It’s nothing.”

“A black eye?” She came closer and gave a cry of dismay as she saw the violent red gash on his temple. “My darling boy, what has happened to you?”

“It looks worse than it is.” He waved aside this show of motherly concern with an impatient motion of his hand. “Why have you come here, Mama? The last time you were here, if you recall, I told you quite clearly that you could never come again.”

“I know, I know. But I really didn’t see any alternative, since you refuse to answer my letters.”

“I cannot correspond with you. You know that.”

“Just so.” She made a self-evident gesture. “Which means that if I wish to see my son, I really have no choice but to come in person.”

He gave a laugh, a harsh and jaded one that made her wince. “Why do I have the feeling that fondness for me is not what has inspired this visit? Perhaps the fact that the last time you called upon me, Papa cut off my income!”

“I am so very sorry about that. I knew he’d be angry if he found out I’d been to see you, but I never dreamt he’d cut you off. Although, upon reflection, I suppose I should have known he’d be capable of it. It’s just the bitter, vindictive sort of thing he would do. He’s—”

“Don’t!” he said fiercely. “Don’t. And spare me any pretense that maternal affection has brought you here. If you had any consideration of that sort, you’d have stayed well away.”

“As I said, I really didn’t have a choice—” She broke off at his warning look and gave a sigh. “Oh, Rex, I do love you, whether you believe me or not.”

The nauseating thing was that he did believe her. Worse, despite that she sponged off him at every possible opportunity, he loved her, too. And that made him all kinds of a fool. “However pressing your need to contact me, I don’t suppose you could have sent a servant in your place?”

“No.” She looked down, pretending a sudden vast interest in the state of her gloves. “I’m afraid not. I didn’t bring any servants with me.”

He frowned. “Not even a maid?”

“I’m only staying two days, so it hardly seemed necessary.” She left off studying her gloves and looked up. “I’m at a hotel.”

That bit of news did not surprise him. After the separation, she had taken to spending most of her time in Paris, and there, she had plenty of friends whose hospitality she could take advantage of. Here in London, however, it was a different matter. The French adored having scandalous friends, the English not so much.

Her lack of a maid, on the other hand, was rather a surprise, but he wasn’t curious enough to inquire further on the subject. “What do you want, Mama?”

She smiled, causing Rex to suck in a sharp breath, for his mother’s smile was strikingly similar to his own, and the sight of it never failed to inspire in him a rather sick feeling of dismay. No one he knew was more charming, more beguiling, or more willing to exploit her good looks than his mother, and he sometimes feared that a similarity of appearance was not the only trait he had inherited from her. “The usual thing, I’m afraid,” she said.

“Already?” Given his mother’s knack for heedless spending, he should not have been surprised, and yet, he was. “God, Mama, I gave you seven hundred pounds less than a month ago. That’s not gone already, surely? What have you spent it on?”

She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Well, darling, everything is just so expensive nowadays. Clothes, you know, and cosmetics, and entertainments . . .” Her voice trailed off, her blue eyes widening with kitten-like innocence. “I don’t know where it goes, honestly. But it does vanish at an unaccountable rate.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” he said, pasting on an air of careless amiability he did not feel in the least. “It does that to me, too, especially when you come calling. Unfortunately, the last time you were here, you not only took all my golden eggs, you managed to kill the proverbial goose. As a result, I haven’t a shilling to give you.”

“I thought . . . that is, I heard . . .” There was a delicate pause. “I heard you were in funds again, despite your father.”

“Ah, so word of Auntie’s generosity reached you in Paris, did it? And you’ve come, hoping for a bit more of the swag? Yes,” he went on before she could reply, “Auntie was kind enough to give me an allowance until I can manage to restore myself to Papa’s good graces, but I’m rather on the out with her at present.”

Her skin paled at this bit of news, making the rouge on her cheeks seem more obvious. “You can’t raise a . . . a loan?”

Rex frowned at the faintness of her voice. She sounded more than dismayed. She sounded . . . afraid. It was an act, of course, and yet, even as he told himself that, he felt a hint of alarm. Showing it, though, would only encourage her to continue playing on his sympathy. “No, Mama, I can’t. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”

She swayed on her feet.

Despite his certainty that he was being manipulated, Rex moved at once, closing the distance between them and catching her arm to keep her from falling. “Steady on, Mama,” he said and led her to the nearest settee. “Sit down.”

She complied, and he sank down beside her. “What is it?” he asked sharply. “What are you not telling me?”

“It doesn’t matter, unless you have money.”

“It does matter if you ever wish me to give you any money in future. You must be honest with me about why you’ve such a pressing need.”

“Very well.” She sighed and looked at him unhappily. “I haven’t been spending what you’ve been giving me for living expenses, or clothes, or anything like that.”

“Then where’s it going?”

She stirred on the settee. “You know I had a . . . umm . . . a spot of bother a few years ago?”

He wasn’t about to let her get by with euphemisms. “Gambling debts, you mean.”

A frown marred her perfect forehead. “Really, Rex, must you be so tactless as to remind me of my past mistakes?”

Unimpressed, he folded his arms, propped his back against the arm of the settee, and prepared himself for what he was certain was coming. “So, you’re gambling again. That’s where the money’s going?”

“No, no!” she cried. “That’s not it at all.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It isn’t! Rex, I swear to you, I have not gambled since then. Not once. It’s understandable if you don’t believe me,” she added as he made a scoffing sound, “but it’s the truth.”

With Mama, the truth was a malleable thing, but there was no point in arguing about it. “What are you spending your money on, if it’s not gambling?”

“You remember how I paid those gambling debts?”

“Yes. You sold your jewels.”

“That’s just it. I didn’t.”

He stiffened. “So that was another lie? Why am I not surprised?”

“I couldn’t sell them. When I took them to sell, the jeweler told me they were paste.”

“What? How?”

“Your father, of course! Well, who else could have done it?” she asked when he made a sound of exasperation at this mention of his other parent. “He must have taken the jewels out at some point before we officially separated and had them replaced with replicas.”

Or she had done so and was lying straight to his face. Either scenario was possible. “So how did you pay the gambling salon?”

She sighed. “I borrowed from moneylenders. The seven hundred pounds you gave me was to pay interest on the debt.”

“Interest? Not all of it, surely?”

“Yes, all of it. The rate is quite high, you see.”

“High? It’s exorbitant! Your gambling debt was only . . . what . . . five hundred pounds?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, Rex. Given my circumstances, the only moneylender who would grant me a loan was . . . somewhat unsavory.”

He thought of her a few moments ago, pale and faint, and he straightened in alarm, unfolding his arms. “How unsavory?”

“Enough to send one of his toughs to pass some very explicit threats to me via my maid. She was terrified enough to depart my employ.”

“Good God, Mama!”

“I know, I know. But what else could I do? Anyway, I thought the money you gave me would pay the principal amount owed as well as the interest, but then, I was told no, that because I hadn’t paid in a timely manner, more interest had accrued and a punitive fee added, so I still owe more money.”

The greedy bastard. Rex pressed his tongue against his teeth, working to contain the anger rising inside him. “How much more?”

“The total is now one thousand pounds. If I don’t pay it by Saturday, it rises again to fourteen hundred.”

“But a thousand in this man’s hands by Saturday clears your debt in full?”

“I have been told so, yes. But what does it matter? If you don’t have it to give me—”

The door opened, interrupting her, and his butler came in. “My lord, your father is here.”

Rex groaned. Could his day get any worse?

“He insists upon seeing you at once,” Whistler went on.

“I’ll bet he does,” Rex muttered, thinking of the newspaper article Clara Deverill had shown him. “He’s heard Auntie Pet has cut me off, and he sees a vulnerability to exploit.”

“That sounds like something he’d do,” his mother put in, causing Rex to round on her at once.

“Pipe down, Countess,” he ordered. “You’ve no moral high ground with me.”

His mother had the grace to look abashed, and he returned his attention to his butler. “Did he happen to have a newspaper with him?”

“He was carrying one, yes, my lord.”

Rex sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“Do you wish to receive him, sir?”

“Here?” Rex jumped to his feet, appalled by the prospect. “My father and my mother in the same room? Are you mad?”

His butler stiffened as if affronted by that question. “I had thought,” he said with dignity, “to put Lord Leyland in the study.”

“No, that won’t do. If you don’t bring him to the drawing room, he’ll immediately start speculating why, and I’ll never get my quarterly allowance back if he goes down that road. Tell him I’m not receiving. Got in a fight, head trauma, all that rot.”

“No,” his mother interjected before the butler could move to depart. “See him. He’s the main source of your income, especially if Petunia is being chary. Best not to antagonize either of them.” She stood up. “I’ll go, and slip down the servant stairs so he won’t see me.”

“That’s not necessary, Mama, for I have no intention of seeing him.” He paused to wave Whistler out of the room to carry out his instructions. “Not after the day I’ve had.”

“But you might be able to return to his good graces, and if so, he’d resume your allowance, and you could then pay off the moneylender—” She broke off, and had the grace to blush at her own self-absorption.

“I’m so happy to know how concerned you are about my well-being, Mama,” he said dryly. “But never fear, I’m sure Auntie and I will work things out and all will be well. In the meantime, if Papa wants to reinstate me, that would be lovely, but I’m still in no mood to eat the crow he wants to dish out, nor do I want to hear a vituperative tirade about you for the second time in a week.”

Even his mother didn’t dare to press the topic any further. “What about the moneylender?” she asked in a whisper. “If I don’t pay him . . .” She paused, pressing a hand to her throat as if unable to continue.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said harshly, well aware he was making a promise he was in no position to keep.

“You’ll raise a loan, then?”

After what had appeared in the paper, he doubted he could raise a loan for omnibus fare, much less one for a thousand pounds, but he didn’t say so.

“I already told you I would take care of it,” he said, leading her to the writing desk by the window and thrusting a pen into her hand. “Write down this moneylender’s name and exactly where in Paris one might find him.”

“But where are you going?” she asked as he turned and started for the door.

“To make certain Papa has really left and isn’t still lurking somewhere about the house. God knows, if he saw you here, I doubt he or Auntie would ever speak to me again, much less reinstate my allowance, and I’m not about to let that happen.”

Upon verifying that Whistler had seen Papa get into his carriage and that said carriage had definitely departed Half Moon Street and turned onto Piccadilly, Rex returned to the drawing room, where his mother presented him with a folded sheet of paper.

“The man lives in a little cul-de-sac near Montmartre,” she explained. “You should be able to find the place easily enough.”

“Me, go to Paris?” He shook his head. “No, I can’t. I need to make amends with Auntie Pet, and if she were to hear I’ve gone to Paris, she’ll think it’s to visit you. Papa will hear of it, too, and the fat will really be in the fire. I will send my valet. He’s a trustworthy, responsible chap. And he’s discreet. The debt will be paid by Saturday, you may be sure.”

“Thank you, Rex. I am truly grateful.”

“Are you?” He took a deep breath, looked into his mother’s eyes, and worked to add another layer of armor to the ones already encasing his heart. “If so, then I trust you will show your gratitude by staying the hell away from me.”

Despite his efforts, the hurt in her eyes pierced his chest like a knife, making it clear that a few more layers of that armor would be required. “Go,” he ordered, “before I realize just how great a fool I truly am.”

He turned away and walked to the writing desk without a backward glance. He sat down and made a great show of retrieving paper, envelopes, and stamps from the desk as if to demonstrate that he’d already dismissed her from his mind, but it was a pose, for he found himself holding his breath until he heard the door behind him open and close.

He waited a moment longer, then glanced over his shoulder to find that she was indeed gone. Only then, did he allow himself a sigh of relief.

That relief, however, was short-lived, for as he’d told his mother a few moments ago, he had to mend his quarrel with Auntie. He also had to obtain a thousand pounds and get it to Paris by Saturday.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that both these problems might be solved at the same time, and by one action. He considered a moment how best to proceed, then he drew a sheet of paper closer, pulled the pen out of its holder, and flipped open the inkwell. After taking a moment to compose in his head just what he wanted to say, he inked his pen and began to write.