“Just look at this one!” Beth twirled so that her skirts rustled out. She smiled over her shoulder at her maid. “I adore the new gowns!” She especially loved the many hues—soft blues and lacy whites, rich pinks and muted greens. They set off her coloring and made her feel as fresh as the spring air.

Annie sniffed. “Ye’ve enough clothes fer a trousseau, which ye don’t want.”

“I do want a trousseau. Just not yet.”

“I can’t imagine why ye wouldn’t want to get married as soon as ye can,” Annie said. “A good man is hard to find. I take ’em wherever I finds ’em.”

“Which is why you’ve been married four times.”

“Five, if ye count the Dane I met in Shrevesport.” Annie pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I don’t always put him on the list, seeing as how he died the very next day.”

Beth’s lips quirked with amusement. She’d hired the dour Annie against her stepmama’s wishes and had never regretted it. Charlotte had not liked that Annie was so forthright and, at times, quite depressing. The maid was also very free-speaking according to the common dictates of society, and she was certainly an oddity. Tall and gangly, with her square, mannish face encircled with rows and rows of improbably red curls, the woman was still a wonder with a needle and had a flair for putting Beth’s long blond tresses into a variety of fashionable styles that was simply unequaled. All in all, she was a divine find as a lady’s maid, no matter her manners.

“Annie, you are quite right not to count the Dane on your list of husbands. I would have left the scoundrel off, too. A man should be a husband at least a week if he wishes to receive credit for it.”

“So I think, my lady.” Annie handed Beth her bonnet and gloves, a suspicious look in her gimlet eyes. “Just who is the man ye’re planning on meetin’ in the park today?”

Beth became very busy pulling on her gloves. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Beatrice and I are going for a ride in her new cabriolet. That is all.”

“Hm. Ye look a mite too excited to just be jauntin’ about in a new carriage.” Annie stood back and eyed Beth up and down and then nodded fiercely, her red curls bobbing. “And ye put on yer best ridin’ gown, too. ’Tis a man. I’m certain of it.”

“You can be certain if you wish, but you would be wrong. I have no desire to meet any man in the park today, or any other day.” Which was a patent falsehood; Beth had been thinking about the dark-haired, green-eyed viscount all morning, ever since she’d awakened to a rather disturbing dream that had him bending over her, as if to kiss her. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could see his handsome face moving toward hers, feel the warmth of his breath, taste the excitement of being so close, so very close to him that—

“Ye can’t tell me that look is fer a ride with yer own cousin,” Annie said with a smug nod. “’Tis a man.”

“It is not,” Beth said pleasantly, looking Annie right in the eye. “And I do not wish to hear otherwise.”

Annie threw up her hands. “Very well, my lady! Hsst it is, then. But take my word on it, if Annie Brice don’t know a woman on crusade, no one does.”

There were times having such a discerning woman as a maid was a true annoyance, Beth decided. She pulled on her gloves and bonnet.

“Grandfather needs me too much right now for such silliness.”

“That’s not what he’d call it.” Annie straightened the top of the dresser. “How is your grandfather?”

“Charlotte wrote and said he’d taken a turn for the worse this last week.” Beth met Annie’s gaze in the mirror. “I worry about him.”

“Ye’re wastin’ yer time, my lady. The old duke is as tough as nails. He won’t nab up his dusters until he’s ready.”

Beth had to smile. “I wish that was true.”

“What’s to say it isn’t?” The maid picked up a reticule from the bed and held it out. “Off with ye now! No more mumblin’ about what might or might not happen. ’Tis a powerful pretty day, full of nip in the air. Could be ye might meet a handsome lad in the park that catches yer fancy and makes yer grandfather happy as a lark. At least, ye might if ye weren’t already on yer way to meet one now.”

Beth took the reticule and pulled it over her wrist. “I won’t deign to answer that. Please have the pink silk ready for the ball this evening. The hem is a little loose on one side.”

“I’ll have it done afore ye return,” Annie said, opening the door and standing to one side. “Ye just go and enjoy yer jaunt in the park. And yer man.”

Beth sailed by her maid. “I shall, Annie. Just for you.” As she ran down the stairs, Beth wondered if Westerville would indeed be in the park. It was possible, as the day was uncommonly beautiful. Such weather brought people out in droves.

Her heart thudded a little faster at the thought.

The viscount interested her. Not as a potential mate, of course. He was definitely not the sort of man one settled down with. No, he was more the dangerous break-your-heart type. Beatrice had been right about that. Fortunately Beth had no desire to settle down just yet, and a pleasant flirtation would certainly be more fun than having to play the stuttering fool to a group of moneygrubbing and dull lords. The problem was, she could not do both—flirt with the viscount and frighten off her other suitors. Which meant that a flirtation simply could not happen.

Some of the brightness went out of the day. Beth found her feet slowing as she crossed the foyer to where a footman held open the door. Outside, she could see Beatrice and her groom beside a beautiful new cabriolet, but Beth could muster no excitement.

She suddenly hoped she wouldn’t see the viscount in the park after all. Mustering a fading smile, she made her way to where Beatrice was waiting.

 

The door to Christian’s bedchamber closed firmly. He opened his eyes and threw a hand over his face as the sun splintered through the crack in the curtain. Good God, what time was it, anyway? Squinting, he peered at the clock on the mantel, cursed loudly, and threw back the covers.

“Good morning,” Reeves said from the wardrobe where he was placing some stiffly starched cravats. “Your robe is on the foot of the bed. I would appreciate it if you would wear something.”

“I don’t need my robe. Just give me my breeches.”

Reeves sighed but handed the article of clothing to Christian.

Christian pulled them on. “You may look now.”

“Thank you, my lord. Your valet, Walters, is unable to assist you this morning. He is suffering from a toothache.”

Reeves opened the wardrobe door. “Shall you wear the black waistcoat, the black waistcoat, or the black waistcoat?”

“I like black.”

“From the looks of things, I’d say you quite adore it, my lord. Passionately. With all of your soul. Your heart. Your every breath—”

“Give me my damned waistcoat!”

“Yes, my lord.” Reeves pulled a waistcoat from the wardrobe and eyed it for a long moment. “I wonder if I have wronged you, my lord. Instead of an unfortunate and inexplicable passion for black, perhaps you sustained an unmentionable loss of some sort, say, of a favorite racehorse or a hound that did well at the hunt—and you feel the need to mourn it for the next fourteen years.”

“Reeves—”

“Or are you perchance allergic to color staining dyes?”

Christian found himself grinning. “I’ve always favored black. It’s a powerful color.”

Reeves held up a black waistcoat and then placed it against yet another. “It is rather powerful. As are all mourning clothes.”

“I wanted to arrive in London with some fanfare. It is important that I stand out.”

“Ah. I see.” Reeves placed one of the black waistcoats on the bed. “You would be a lump of coal among the jewels. A fat, black pigeon in the face of so many brilliant peacocks. A—”

“Bloody hell, were you this annoying with my father?”

“I fear I was more so, my lord. I was younger then and could go on and on and on—”

“Good. The old bastard deserved a difficult time.”

“So many people believe.” The butler handed a fresh shirt to Christian, then placed a heavily starched cravat on the bed. After Christian had donned the shirt, he took the cravat and carefully wound it about his neck, then tied it in an intricate pattern.

He examined himself in the mirror and dipped his chin just the slightest bit to adjust the cravat folds to perfection.

Reeves waited in respectful silence, then handed the waistcoat to Christian. “Black or not, your waistcoats are quite well made. That brocade is most wondrous.”

Christian slipped on the waistcoat, sliding his fingers over the silky surface. “For a long time, I had so little. A bit of luxury does not seem amiss now.”

“No, my lord. Now is indeed the time for you to spoil yourself.” Reeve opened a pin box and held it out to Christian.

Christian selected a large ruby cravat pin and carefully placed it in the creation he’d tied at his throat.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen that particular cravat design before,” Reeves noted once this delicate operation was completed.

“It’s one of my own,” Christian said, admiring it himself. “I call it Vengeance.”

“You will set a trend, my lord.” Reeves smiled a bit. “It is odd to think how very different you are from your twin brother, not only in looks, but in attitude.”

“Tristan does not care for fashion. He prefers to dress as if he was still on board ship.”

“He is also quite satisfied not seeking vengeance for your mother’s death.”

“He is more focused on the future,” Christian said with a shrug. “He was ever that way.” Besides, Tristan had never understood Mother quite the way Christian had. Christian possessed not only her leaf green eyes and golden-hued skin, but also her appreciation for the finer things in life.

She had relished the silk sheets and heavy lace-trimmed coverlet that had decorated her bed. He could still remember how she’d run her fingers over the smooth surface of a fine piece of furniture, a look of deep pleasure on her face. She’d lived as fully as she could, enjoying every moment, every experience. He wanted to do that. Perhaps once this situation was settled, he would—

He frowned. Odd, but he’d never really thought of what he’d do once he’d brought his mother’s murderer to justice. Perhaps because for so long, it had been such a far-off goal. Now…now it was but weeks away. A trill of determination squared his shoulders.

Reeves picked up the black coat from the bed. “Your father thought quite highly of your mother. I heard him say so on more than one occasion.”

Christian met the valet’s gaze in the mirror. “Don’t try to make me think more of my father than I do.”

Reeves held out the coat for Christian. “I wouldn’t dare do such a thing. In fact, I do not blame you for being angry.”

Christian shrugged into the coat. “I’m not angry. My mother and father are both gone. Anger would be a wasted emotion.”

“I would still be angry, my lord. Very.”

Christian regarded himself in the mirror. He was dressed head to foot in unrelenting black, with the exception of the snowy white cravat at his throat. Only the heat from the ruby at his throat and the vivid green of his own eyes marred the black and white picture.

He caught Reeves’s gaze in the mirror.

The butler raised his brows. “Primping, my lord?”

“I’ve never had such a finely starched cravat. Do not tell me Walters did this.”

“He took ill last night before he could complete the starching. I took it upon myself to finish the job.” Reeves soberly studied Christian’s appearance in the mirror and nodded. “I hate to admit it, but the black does seem to lend you a certain rakish air.”

Christian grinned. “It’s good to know that all those years on the High Toby weren’t for nothing.”

Reeves winced. “Please, my lord. I have asked that you do not mention your former profession, although…You do remember what you told me about killing people?”

“That I have never killed a single soul.”

The butler heaved a relieved sigh. “I do love hearing you say that, my lord.”

“You are quite safe with me, Reeves. Unless, of course, you continue to critique my choice of clothing. I am not responsible for my actions then.”

Reeves smiled faintly. “When you smile like that, you look remarkably like the portrait of your mother, my lord.”

“Her—” Christian looked at the valet. “There is a portrait of my mother?”

“At Rochester House, your father’s chief residence. It now belongs to your brother, should you wish to see it.”

Tristan would not part with it, and Christian did not blame him. “I wonder why Father had a portrait of a woman he refused to even so much as acknowledge?”

“He commissioned the portrait after her death. The artist used a miniature, though you would never know it to see the results.” Reeves sighed. “I’m sorry, my lord. Your father was a bit tight.”

“Tight?”

“Yes, my lord. Tight with both his funds and his heart, except when it came to things of fashion. A fact I think he came to regret.”

“Too little, too late.”

“Yes. In many things. Before he died, he said that of all the women he’d known, your mother was the loveliest both in body and spirit.”

“She was lovely,” Christian said harshly, “until she caught the ague in gaol and began to waste away.”

“He always felt guilty he was not here to protect her.”

Christian, putting on his riding boots, turned to look at the butler. “He was remorseful? You really believe that?”

“Very. He was out of the country when she was imprisoned. In Italy. He did not receive word about your mother until two entire months had passed. Because of the situation on the continent, it then took him a while to reach London.”

Christian turned to face the butler. “Father came to London to save her?”

“As quickly as he could, though he arrived too late.” Reeves quietly closed the wardrobe door. “It was at that time that he commissioned the portrait.”

For a long moment, Christian stared down at his riding boots, a question trembling on his tongue. It was a question that had trembled on his tongue more than once, but he’d never had the courage to say it aloud. “Did he…did he try to find Tristan and me?”

“Your father paid a fortune to various unsavory individuals who swore they could locate you both. But no one found even a trace.”

Christian tried to swallow, but couldn’t. He’d so wanted to believe that his father had attempted to help him, to help his mother. So wanted to believe it…and yet, over the years, the belief had died. In its place was a hard seed of bitterness that refused to be dislodged. “Did Father believe Mother innocent of the charges?”

Reeves sighed. “I don’t know what he thought, only what he was told. And he was told that she was guilty of the crime. That there was nothing he could have done even if he had made it to London in time.”

“Who told him that rubbish?” Christian demanded.

“The king.”

Christian gripped the bedpost with a white-knuckled hand. “The king?”

“Your father went to see him the second his ship docked. He didn’t even stop to change, but rode straight to Whitecastle where the king was staying. Though the king was already abed, your father demanded an audience.”

“He really did try to help her,” Christian heard himself say in a voice filled with wonder.

“I don’t think he ever forgave himself when he realized that their estrangement had placed her in so unprotected a position.”

“He should have felt guilty.”

“He did, however…” Reeves hesitated, then said in a hurried voice, “My lord, whatever happened to your mother, it was heavily substantiated by some seemingly irrefutable evidence. The king was convinced of her guilt.”

“The evidence was false. Willie will bring us the information we need so that we know what to look for. He’s to arrive sometime today.” Christian turned toward the door. “But for now, I must bid you adieu. Lady Elizabeth will be in Hyde Park this morning, if her footman is to be believed.”

“Oh, footmen never lie,” Reeves said in a dry voice.

Christian had to smile. “Not when they’re well paid, they don’t. How do I look, Reeves? Polished enough to become the lady’s most determined suitor, after, of course, she becomes mine?”

“After she becomes yours?”

“Love is a game of chess, Reeves. Of the heart. I have studied every bit of information I have been able to glean, and Massingale’s granddaughter is his one weakness, the only person he allows close to him.”

“Is there not a daughter-in-law, as well?”

Christian frowned. “How do you know about her?”

“Servants’ talk, my lord. Since you gifted me with information as to your plan, I have made some inquiries.”

“Since last night?”

“You may have slept until ten, but I did not. I was up at dawn and went to the market. I spent several minutes inspecting the poultry, at which time I had a most interesting conversation with one Mrs. Kimble, who has the fortune of being the Duke of Massingale’s housekeeper.”

“Reeves! You—what did you discover?”

“The duke dotes on his granddaughter. She is apparently quite a favorite with the staff, too. I also discovered that the duke is not fond of his daughter-in-law and that his health is failing rapidly. In fact, there is some worry that he has not long to live.”

Christian paused. He hadn’t heard a word about the duke’s health. Damn it, was it possible he’d spent his whole life dreaming of vengeance on the man who’d ruined his mother, only to be cheated by death?

He quirked a brow at Reeves. “Anything else?”

“Yes. It seems that Lord Massingale is concerned his daughter-in-law is interested in a man, one Lord Bennington, who is quite close to Lady Charlotte. The housekeeper seems to think the man is a menace of some sort, though I could not discover quite why.”

Christian grimaced. It was ironic that he’d spent weeks and weeks infiltrating Massingale’s estate and had gotten no closer than the stables while Reeves had merely taken a trip to the local market, cozied up to a housekeeper, and discovered as much information as Christian’s month of hard work. “Old or ill, the duke is still responsible for my mother’s death.”

“Old or ill, he is possibly responsible for your mother’s death,” Reeves said gently. “You said yourself you had not yet collected enough evidence to prove your case.”

“I will have it soon enough.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Damn it! Christian raked a hand through his hair. He hated being ungracious. Still…He shot a hard glance at Reeves. “If you find out anything else, you will tell me?”

“Yes, my lord. Without fail.”

“Thank you. You are an exceptional man, Reeves.”

“I try, my lord.”

Christian took a last look at himself in the mirror, then turned toward the door. “I am off to the park, then.” Within moments, he was striding down the hallway, the morning sun slanting across the polished floor. His entire body was focused on the upcoming dance he was to perform. He had to win his way into Lady Elizabeth’s confidence. He had to. One part of him was rather excited about the prospect; but another reminded him rather forcefully of the fact that—had circumstances been different—he might well have pursued the intriguing Lady Elizabeth on her own merits alone.

He could not stop his active imagination from picturing the lush and lovely Elizabeth in his bed. Just the thought of her lithe form stretched naked across his sheets, her honey-streaked hair spreading around her, that expression of amusement and intelligence sparkling in her eyes…until, of course, her eyes darkened with passion from that surprisingly warm brown to heated black.

Or would her eyes darken with passion? Perhaps they’d light up.

He suddenly realized that the little bits of information he’d collected about the lady over the last few weeks had not given him a very accurate picture at all. He knew, for instance, that she preferred the quadrille to all other forms of dance. That she did not often ride in the park unless it was in a carriage. That she favored comedic plays rather than sober, sad ones. These were useful pieces of information, all discovered with cunning and guile. Still, he did not know what she wanted, what she feared, and perhaps—even more important—who she really was.

He paused in the hallway, the faintest hint of unease settling between his shoulder blades. For a long moment, he stood staring at the floor.

Then, a sudden resolute look in his face, he turned on his heel and went into the library to his desk. He uncapped the ink and dipped a pen, then wrote a single line on a bit of foolscap. That done, he shook it dry, returned the ink and pen, tucked the paper into his pocket, and left once again. In the hallway, he took his hat and gloves from the footman and walked out the front door to stand on the step, feeling as if he’d made a huge decision.

And he had. He was only doing what he had to. What the tragedy of his mother’s death required. That was all.

Jaw tight, Christian made his way down the wide marble steps, his riding boots clicking briskly. Now was not the time to question his own motives. It was ridiculous the way he’d allowed Reeves to cast shadows on his carefully thought out plans. He knew damned well what he was doing and he didn’t need his father’s old butler giving him moral advice.

Things hadn’t come to that low of a pass. Not yet, anyway.

Sighing, he took the reins of his favorite mount from a waiting groom and swung up into the saddle. “Let the siege begin,” he said under his breath, pressing his thighs against the huge brute of a horse and letting the animal speed his way to the park.