About the Author

DEB MARLOWE grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’d read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys. Though she now spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and car pool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at debmarlowe@debmarlowe.com.

Cinderella
in the
Regency
Ballroom
Her Cinderella Season
Tall, Dark and Disreputable
Deb Marlowe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In The Regency Ballroom Collection

Scandal in the Regency Ballroom April 2013

Innocent in the Regency Ballroom May 2013

Wicked in the Regency Ballroom June 2013

Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom July 2013

Rogue in the Regency Ballroom August 2013

Debutante in the Regency Ballroom September 2013

Rumours in the Regency Ballroom October 2013

Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom November 2013

Mistress in the Regency Ballroom December 2013

Courtship in the Regency Ballroom January 2014

Rake in the Regency Ballroom February 2014

Secrets in the Regency Ballroom March 2014

Her Cinderella Season

Author Note:

For many years the Dreadnought Seamen’s Hospital provided health and welfare services to ‘all distressed seamen’ and the people who lived and worked in port communities. The hospital’s very first home was on board HMS Grampus, afloat on the River Thames. Here a small staff dedicated themselves to those who made their lives on the sea. They took in their first patients in 1821.

By 1830 the hospital had outgrown the Grampus. The Royal Navy generously donated the ex-warship HMS Dreadnought, from which the hospital thereafter took its name. In 1870 the Dreadnought moved ashore in Greenwich. It became an important part of the local community, and treated sailors from all nations and locals alike until it closed its doors in 1986.

I admit to fudging the dates a bit in Her Cinderella Season, when I had the staff of HMS Grampus taking J. Crump in several months earlier than the hospital officially opened its doors. Once I knew Crump and realised he was dying, I longed for him to end his days in a place of caring and dignity. I hope you’ll forgive the poetic licence.

For my Grandpap—

a real-life hero for the ages

Chapter One

Jack’s hand held steady, his aim unwavering. His pistol was pointed straight at Hassan’s evil heart. This time he would kill the bastard. This time he would.

But something moved in the shadowy dreamscape. A soft rustle sounded, impossibly close—just as his sleeping mind had known it would. Not Aswan. Smaller. Jack caught the faint scent of gardenias just a moment before he felt the press of cold steel at his temple.

A flood of fury and frustration swamped him. God damn it, now the innocent girl below him would die. He would die all alone up here in the pitch blackness of the Egyptian Hall gallery and an ancient treasure would fall into the worst of hands.

As it always did, night after night, an indescribable flurry of movement erupted as Aswan intervened. A woman’s cry. A bright flash of light in the near darkness. And a searing pain that exploded in his arm and knocked him backwards.

Someone loomed over him. The sinister face swam in the darkness, but somehow he knew it was not the woman who’d shot him, nor was it the villain Hassan—it must be Batiste. Captain Batiste, the silent, invisible mastermind behind much of the plot to hurt his friends. The shadow began to laugh, and an old, cold rage burned deep in Jack’s gut.

‘So disappointing, Jack,’ the figure whispered. ‘I expected more of you.’

He scrambled backwards. It was not a stranger’s voice reaching for him out of the darkness, but his father’s.

Gasping, Jack jerked awake.

That damned dream again. He shook off the remnants of the nightmare and glanced at the clock on the wall—early afternoon. Had he fallen asleep in his chair? A heavy tome rested painfully against his injured arm. He tossed it on to the floor and scrubbed his free hand against his scalp, trying to chase away the fuzziness in his head.

That night at the Egyptian Hall had not been his finest moment. Perhaps that was the reason he relived it repeatedly in his dreams. He heaved a massive sigh. He didn’t regret mixing himself up in Lord Treyford’s misadventures, and yet …

Trey and Chione had taken their family back to Devonshire. Soon they would be leaving for Egypt, embarking on an adventure that Jack couldn’t help but envy. He’d held his breath, hoping to be asked along, but Trey and Chione were occupied with each other, and caught up in the wonder of what awaited them.

Jack had been left behind and he’d found himself strangely unsettled. He pressed his good hand hard against his brow. His preoccupation with Batiste had grown, becoming something closer to obsession. The villain had slipped away on the tide, leaving Hassan and his other confederates to be caught up in Treyford’s net. The man’s escape nagged at Jack incessantly.

He stood. He was due to meet Pettigrew, to test those devilishly bad-mannered bays the baron was trying to sell. Jack cast a rueful glance down at his arm. This was not the most reasonable course of action, but, damn it, the man had baited him. At any other point in his life, Jack would have ignored the baron’s desperate manoeuvre. Not this time. Instead he had risen like a trout to a well-crafted lure. A stupid response. Immature. And yet another maddening symptom of his recent erratic temperament.

Jack struggled into his greatcoat and decided to stop by White’s and pick up his brother along the way. Charles was in town to further his reform causes before the Parliamentary session closed, and to conveniently avoid the domestic chaos brought on by a colicky baby. And since he had been the one to introduce him to Pettigrew, then riding along with a crippled driver and an unruly team was the least he could do.

As he set out, a chill wind began to gust. The cold blast of air made his arm throb like an aching tooth. Jack huddled a little deeper into his coat and rifled in his pocket for Pettigrew’s hastily scribbled address. He stopped short. The baron’s dire financial straits had led him to take rooms in Goodman’s Fields. An unsavoury neighbourhood it might be, but it was conveniently located near enough to the London docks—where the offices of Batiste’s defunct shipping company were located.

Jack quickened his step. This might not be a wasted day after all.

Lily Beecham glanced at her mother from the corner of her eye. Mrs Margaret Beecham had turned slightly away from her daughter, avoiding the brightest light as she concentrated on her needlework. Slowly, surreptitiously, Lily tilted her head back and directly into the path of the afternoon sunshine.

Though it wasn’t the least bit ladylike, Lily loved the warmth of the sun on her face. The burst of patterned radiance behind her closed eyelids, the brush of the breeze on her heated cheeks; it took her back, every single time. For a few seconds she was a girl again, in her father’s arms, giggling like mad while he spun her round and his rich, booming laugh washed over her. Sometimes she could hear its echo still, the liquid sound of pure love.

Not now, though. Now she heard only the unnecessarily loud clearing of her mother’s throat. ‘Lilith, this is a public thoroughfare, not the back pasture at home.’

‘Yes, of course, Mother.’ Lily straightened in her seat. She glanced down at her copy of Practical Piety, but she’d read Hannah More’s work many times over already and now was not the time to risk her mother discovering the thin volume she’d tucked inside. She got to her feet and began to pace behind the table they’d been asked to tend for Lady Ashford’s Fancy Fair and Charity Bazaar.

The majority of the booths and tables in the countess’s event had been strung along Rotten Row in Hyde Park, where they were sure to catch the attention of those with both the inclination and the wherewithal to purchase ribbons, bonnets and embroidered penwipes in the name of charity. The Book Table, however, along with the Second-Hand Clothing and the Basketry tables, had been pronounced more likely to appeal to the masses, and had thus been placed outside the Grosvenor Gate, right alongside Park Lane.

‘It is somewhat frustrating, isn’t it, Mother—that we’ve sat here all day, just outside the most famous park in London, and we’ve yet to set foot inside?’

‘Not in the least. Why should such a thing vex you? This park is full of grass and trees just like any other.’ Mrs Beecham’s needle did not pause as she glanced up at her daughter. ‘We should count ourselves fortunate to have been asked to help today. It is an honour to be of service to such a noble cause.’

‘Yes, of course you are right.’ Lily suppressed a sigh. She didn’t know why she should be surprised at the disappointments of the day. The entire trip to town had been an exercise in frustration.

Long ago her father had talked to her of London. He had perched her on his knee, run his fingers through the tangle of her hair and spoken of great museums, elaborate theatrical productions and the noisy, chaotic workings of Parliament, where the fates of men and nations were decided. He had spun fanciful stories of her own future visits to the greatest city in the world, and she had eagerly absorbed every tale.

But her father had died before his stories could come true and Lily’s busy, happy life had been abandoned for sober duty and sombre good works. And so, it seemed, had her dream of London.

Her hopes had been so high when her mother had announced that they were to travel to town and spend the month of May. But over the last weeks, joy and anticipation had dwindled. She had trailed her mother from one Reformist committee to another Evangelical meeting and on to an Abolitionist group, and the dreadful truth had dawned on her. Her surroundings had changed, but her situation had not.

‘Mr Cooperage will make a fine missionary, don’t you agree?’ her mother asked, this time without looking away from her work. Lily wondered if it was giving her trouble, so intent did she appear.

‘He will if the fancy work inside the park proves more profitable than the Book Table. Even with the Cheap Repository Tracts to sell, we haven’t raised enough to get him a hackney across town, let alone passage to India.’

Her mother frowned.

Lily sighed. ‘I don’t mean to be flippant.’ She stood on her toes to peer past the gate and into the park. ‘There does seem to be a bigger crowd gathered inside.’

Her mother’s scowl faded as a young woman strolling past on a gentleman’s arm broke away to approach their table. Lily returned her friendly smile and admired the white lute-string trim on her violet walking dress.

‘Good afternoon,’ the young woman said brightly. ‘But it seems as if you are out of A. Vaganti?’ She nodded towards Lily’s chair and the volume now peeking from the staid pages of Mrs More’s work. ‘I’ve already read The Emerald Temple. I was wondering if you might have the newest Nicolas adventure, The Pharaoh’s Forbidden City?’

Mrs Beecham darted a sharp glance in Lily’s direction. ‘No, but we have several more improving works. Bowdler’s Shakespeare, for instance, if fiction is what interests you.’

The young lady gave a soft, tinkling laugh. ‘Oh my, no! Surely it is a shame to allow that man to chop apart the works of our great bard? What harm is there in Shakespeare? It seems I’ve read or seen his works from the cradle!’

She tilted her head engagingly. ‘Forgive me for being bold, ma’am,’ she said with a smile. ‘How wonderful you are to give your day to helping Lady Ashford’s good cause.’ She dropped a curtsy. ‘I am Miss Dawson.’ She cast an encouraging glance at Lily.

Hurriedly, Lily returned the curtsy. ‘My mother, Mrs Margaret Beecham.’ She gestured and smiled back. ‘I am Miss Beecham.’ Something about the girl’s friendly countenance had her blurting out, ‘But please, you must call me Lily.’

‘Beecham?’ the girl asked with a frown of concentration. She eyed Lily curiously. ‘You test my recollection of our ponderous family tree, but I believe we have relatives of that name. Might you come from Dorset?’

‘Indeed, yes,’ Lily replied. ‘We are in town for a few weeks only.’

It’s a pleasure, Lily.’ She looked over her shoulder as her companion called her name. ‘Oh dear, I must run.’ She leaned in close. ‘That is my betrothed, Lord Lindley. We both adore A. Vaganti, but he would never admit to it in public.’ She grinned and, reaching across the table, pressed Lily’s hand. ‘I feel sure we shall meet again.’

Lily watched the young lady take her gentleman’s arm and head into the park. A little sigh escaped her. She might have been friends with a girl like that, had her father not died. She let herself imagine what might have been, for just a moment: friends, novels, walks in the park. Perhaps even she might have had a beau? She flushed and glanced at her mother, who regarded her with a frown.

‘I hope you are not still mooning about participating in the social whirl?’

Lily took notice of the sharp note in her mother’s voice and then she took her seat. She picked up her book, and gazed down at it for several long seconds. ‘No, of course not,’ she answered. A soft breeze, warm and laden with the green scent of the park, brushed her cheek. With sudden resolution, Lily pulled the adventure novel from its hiding place and opened it.

The heavy weight of her mother’s gaze rested on her for several long seconds. Suddenly her mother let out a sigh that echoed her own. ‘I do hope that young lady will buy something inside. Mr Cooperage’s work is so important. Think of all those lost souls just waiting for him!’ She resumed her needlework, then paused to knot her thread. ‘We’ve had so little interest out here, I had begun to wonder if Lady Ashford might better have chosen the Hanover Square Rooms for her fair.’

‘I’m sure it will all turn out well,’ Lily soothed. ‘You know the countess—she will have it no other way.’ She smiled. ‘And the crickets were singing away when we arrived, Mother. That’s a definite sign of good fortune.’

Her mother’s needlework went down, but her brow lowered even further. ‘Lilith Beecham—you know how it upsets me to hear you spouting such nonsense!’ She took a fortifying breath, but Lily was saved from further harangue by a shrill cry.

‘Mrs Beecham!’

They turned to look.

‘Mrs Beecham—you must come!’

‘It’s Lady Ashford,’ Lily said in surprise. And indeed it was the countess, although clad as she was in various shades of blue and flapping a large white handkerchief as she sailed towards the gate, she resembled nothing so much as a heavily laden frigate storming a blockade.

‘My dear Mrs Beecham …’ the countess braced her hand on the table for support while she caught her breath ‘… it is Mr Wilberforce himself!’ she panted. ‘He has come to thank us and has brought Mr Cooperage along with him.’ She picked up one of the Repository Tracts and began to fan herself with it.

Lily looked askance at her mother’s stunned expression. William Wilberforce, the famous abolitionist and one of the leading members of the Evangelical movement, was Margaret Beecham’s particular idol.

Mrs Beecham found her tongue. ‘Oh, but, Lady Ashford—Wilberforce himself! What a coup!’ She stood and pressed the countess’s hand. ‘How wonderful for you, to be sure.’

‘And for you, too, Mrs Beecham,’ Lady Ashford said warmly, recovering her breath. ‘For I have told Mr Wilberforce how easily the charity school in Weymouth went up, and how thoroughly the community has embraced it. It was largely your doing, and so I told him. I informed him also of your tremendous success in recruiting volunteers. He wishes to meet you and thank you in person! His carriage is swamped right now with well wishers and so I have come to fetch you. He means to take us both up for a drive and he’ll drop you right here when we’ve been round the park.’

‘A drive?’ Lily saw all the colour drain from her mother’s face. ‘With Mr Wilberforce?’

‘Come now!’ Lady Ashford said in imperious tones. ‘We must not keep him waiting!’

‘Oh, but I—’ Mrs Beecham sat abruptly down again.

‘Come, Mother,’ Lily urged, pulling her back to her feet. ‘You’ve worked long and hard. You deserve a bit of accolade.’ She smiled at the odd mix of fear and longing on her mother’s face. ‘It is fine,’ she soothed. ‘He only wishes to acknowledge your efforts.’

‘We must go now, Mrs Beecham!’ Lady Ashford had done with the delay. She reached out and began to drag Lily’s mother along with her.

‘Oh, but Lilith—’ came the last weak protest from Mrs Beecham.

‘The girl will be fine. The ladies from the other tables are here and she’s not some chit barely out of the schoolroom. She’ll know how to handle herself.’

‘Goodbye, Mother!’ Lily called. ‘Do try to enjoy yourself!’ She watched until the ladies disappeared into the crowd, and then took her seat, knowing the futility of that last admonition.

Traffic in the street ahead of her began to pick up. Shining high-perch phaetons wheeled through the Grosvenor Gate into the park. Gorgeously groomed thoroughbreds and their equally handsome riders followed. Ladies dressed in rich, fluttering fabrics paused at the tables, or giggled as they passed them by. Lily watched them all a bit wistfully. Surely they were not all so empty-headed and frivolous as her mother believed? Lady Ashford certainly thrived with one foot firmly in the thick of the ton and the other in the Evangelical camp.

She fought back a shudder as she glanced down at her plain, brown, serviceable gown. What did those men and women of society think when they looked at her? They could not see inside, where her true self lay. Did they see the girl who loved a bruising ride, and a thrilling novel? Could they conceive of her secret dreams, the longings that she’d buried so deep, she’d forgotten them herself? No. They could not. Why would they?

Lily straightened, shocked by a sudden idea. She’d been so excited to come to town, sure this was the chance she’d awaited: the long-anticipated sign of change and good fortune. But what if the sign had been meant for her mother instead? This disturbing thought kept her occupied for several agonisingly conflicted minutes. Of course she wished her mother happy. Hadn’t she thrown herself into an attempt to please her for the last seven years? She’d done all she could to ease the blow of her father’s loss. She’d settled down, acted the lady, given up all the rough-and-ready activities of her youth, all because she was eager to please a mother who had always seemed uncomfortable with and somewhat perplexed by her spirited daughter.

Only now did Lily realise how significant the prospect of change had become in her mind—now when the possibility appeared to be fading fast away.

‘My dear Miss Beecham, here you are at last!’

‘Mr Cooperage.’ Lily shook off her disturbing train of thought and tried to rally a smile for the missionary approaching from the park. ‘How nice to see you. I’m sure your presence is a boost to all of our volunteers.’

‘Naturally,’ he agreed. Lily tried not to wince. Everything about the missionary, from dress to manner, spoke of neatness and correctness. Yet Lily did not find him a comfortable man. His tendency to speak in pronouncements unnerved her.

‘Will you step away a little with me?’ he asked in his forceful tone. ‘I gave up my seat in my friend Wilberforce’s barouche for your mother. What better recompense, I asked myself, than to seek out her lovely daughter?’

‘I should not leave my table,’ she hedged. ‘I should not wish to miss a sale.’

He glanced significantly about. Not a soul appeared to rescue her.

‘We shall not stray far,’ he insisted. ‘We shall stay right here near the gates.’

Lily sighed, laid a hand on the gentleman’s arm and allowed him to lead her a few steps down the street.

‘You, my dear Miss Beecham, are a fortunate young lady,’ Mr Cooperage told her in the same tones he might use from the pulpit. ‘I confess myself to be a great admirer of your mother’s.’ He took care to steer her away from the busy traffic in the street. ‘Your mother, much like Wilberforce himself, has lived in the world. They each knew years full of frivolities and trivial pursuits. How much more we must honour them for having turned from superficiality to a life of worthiness.’

Lily stared. ‘I must thank you for the compliment to my mother, Mr Cooperage, but surely you state your case in terms too strong?’

‘Impossible!’ he scoffed. His voice rang so loud that several passers-by turned to look. ‘I could not rate my respect for the woman your mother is now any higher, nor my contempt for those who cling to a life of vanity and mindless amusement—’ he flicked a condemnatory wave towards the park and the stream of people now entering ‘—any lower.’

Had Lily been having this conversation yesterday, or last week, or at any given time in the last seven years, she would have swallowed her irritation and tactfully steered the missionary to a less volatile topic. But today—there was something different about today. Perhaps she’d had too much time to think, or perhaps she had for some time been moving towards an elemental shift, but today the rebel in her—the one with the taste for adventure novels—had got the bit in her teeth.

She sucked in a fortifying breath and straightened her spine. ‘Firstly, Mr Cooperage, I feel compelled to tell you that my mother has been worthy of your admiration, and anyone else’s, for her entire life. Secondly, I would ask that you not be so quick to disparage the pleasure seekers about us.’ She cocked her head at him. ‘For is that not what today is all about—the happy mix of amusement and altruism?’

Displeasure marred his pleasing features, but only for a moment. He chuckled and assumed an air of condescension. ‘Your innocence is refreshing, Miss Beecham.’ He sighed. ‘The sad truth is that if it would give them a moment’s pleasure, most of these people would as soon toss their coin in the gutter as donate it to our cause.’

‘But surely you don’t believe that merriment and worthiness are mutually exclusive?’ Her father’s image immediately rose up in her mind. His quick smile and ready laugh were two of her most cherished memories. ‘I’m certain you will agree that it is possible to work hard, to become a useful and praiseworthy soul and still partake of the joy in life?’

‘The joy in life?’ Mr Cooperage appeared startled by the concept. ‘My dear, we were not put on this earth to enjoy life—’ He cut himself abruptly off. Lily could see that it pained him greatly. She suspected he wanted badly to inform her exactly what he thought her purpose on this earth to be.

Instead, he forced a smile. ‘I will not waste our few moments of conversation.’ He paused and began again in a lower, almost normal conversational tone. ‘I do thank you for your efforts today. However they are gained, I mean to put today’s profits to good use. I hope to accomplish much of God’s work in my time abroad.’

‘How impatient you must be to begin,’ she said, grateful for a topic on which they could agree. ‘I can only imagine your excitement at the prospect of helping so many people, learning their customs and culture, seeing strange lands and exotic sights.’ She sighed. ‘I do envy you the experience!’

‘You should not,’ he objected. ‘I do not complain. I will endure the strange lodgings, heathen food and poor company because I have a duty, but I would not subject a woman to the hardships of travel.’

She should not have been surprised. ‘But what if a woman has a calling such as yours, sir? What then? Or do you not believe such a thing to be possible?’

He returned her serious expression. ‘I believe it to be rare, but possible.’ He glanced back towards the park gate. ‘Your mother, I believe, has been called. I do think she will answer.’

Her mother had been called? To do what?

‘My mission will keep me from the shores of England for a little more than a year, Miss Beecham, but your good mother assures me that there are no other suitors in the wings and that a year is not too long a wait.’ He roamed an earnest gaze over her face. ‘Was she wrong?’

Lily took a step back. Surprise? He had succeeded in shocking her. ‘You wish my mother to wait for you, sir? Do you mean to court her?’

He chuckled. ‘Your modesty reflects well on you, my dear. No—it is you who I wish to wait for me. You who I mean to court most assiduously when I return.’ His eyes left her face, and darted over the rest of her. ‘Your mother was agreeable to the notion. I hope you feel the same?’

Lily stood frozen—not shocked, but numb. Completely taken aback. Mr Cooperage wished to marry her? And her mother had consented? It must be a mistake. At first she could not even wrap her mind about such an idea, but then she had to struggle to breathe as the bleak image of such a life swept over her.

‘Miss Beecham?’ Mr Cooperage sounded anxious, and mildly annoyed. ‘A year is too long?’ he asked.

She couldn’t breathe. She willed her chest to expand, tried to gasp for the air that she desperately needed. She was going to die. She would collapse to the ground right here, buried and suffocated under the weight of a future she did not want.

Her life was never going to change. The truth hit her hard, at last knocking the breath back into her starving lungs. She gasped out loud and Mr Cooperage began to look truly alarmed. Seven years. So long she had laboured; she had tried her best and squashed the truest part of her nature, all in the attempt to get her mother to look at her with pride. Was this, then, what it would take? The sacrifice of her future?

Lily took a step back, and then another. Only vaguely did she realise how close she had come to the busy street behind her. She only thought to distance herself from the grim reality of the life unfolding in front of her.

‘Miss Beecham!’ called Mr Cooperage. ‘Watch your step. Watch behind you!’ he thundered. ‘Miss Beecham!’

A short, heavy snort sounded near her. Lily turned. A team of horses, heads tossing wildly, surged towards her. Her gaze met one wild, rolling eye. A call of fright rang out. Had she made the sound, or had the horse?

‘Miss Beecham!’

Chapter Two

Jack Alden pulled as hard as he dared on the ribbons. Pain seared its way up his injured arm. Pettigrew’s ill-tempered bays responded at last, subsiding to a sweating, quivering stop.

‘I warned you that these nags were too much for that arm,’ his brother Charles said. His hand gripped the side of the borrowed crane-neck phaeton.

‘Stow it, Charles,’ Jack growled. He stared ahead. ‘Hell and damnation, it’s a woman in the street!’

‘Well, no wonder that park drag ground to a halt. I told you when it started into the other lane that this damned flighty team would bolt.’

‘She’s not moving,’ Jack complained. Was the woman mad? Oblivious to the fact that she’d nearly been trampled like a turnip off a farm cart, she stood stock still. She wasn’t even looking their way now; her attention appeared focused on something on the pavement. Jack could not see just what held her interest with near deadly result. Nor could he see her face, covered as it was by a singularly ugly brown bonnet.

‘You nearly ran her down. She’s likely frozen in fear,’ Charles suggested.

‘For God’s sake!’ Jack thrust the reins into his brother’s hands and swung down. Another jolt of pain ripped through his arm. ‘Hold them fast!’ he growled in exasperation.

‘Do you know, Jack, people have begun to comment on the loss of your legendary detachment,’ Charles said as he held the bays in tight.

‘I am not detached!’ Jack said, walking away. ‘You make me sound like a freehold listing in The Times.’

‘Auction on London Gentleman, Manner Detached,’ his brother yelled after him.

Jack ignored him. Legendary detachment be damned. He was anchored fully in this moment and surging forwards on a wave of anger. The fool woman had nearly been killed, and by his hand! Well, that might be an exaggeration, but without doubt the responsibility would have been his. He’d caught sight of her over the thrashing heads of the horses—standing where she clearly did not belong—and fear and anger and guilt had blasted him like lightning out of the sky. The realisation that his concern was more for himself than for her only fuelled his fury.

‘Madam!’ he called as he strode towards her. The entire incident had happened so fast that the park drag had still not manoeuvred completely past. People milled about on the pavement, and one florid gentleman glared at the woman, but made no move to approach her.

‘Madam!’ No response. ‘If you are bent on suicide, might I suggest another man’s phaeton? This one is borrowed and I am bound to deliver it in one piece.’

She did not answer or even look at him. ‘Ma’am, do you not realise that you were nearly killed?’ He took her arm. ‘Come now, you cannot stand in the street!’

At last, ever so slowly, the bonnet began to turn. The infuriating creature looked him full in the face.

Jack immediately wished she hadn’t. He had grown up surrounded by beauty. He’d lived in an elegant house and received an excellent education. From ancient statuary to modern landscapes, between the sweep of grand architecture and the graceful curve of the smallest Sèvres bowl, he’d been taught to recognise and appreciate the value of loveliness.

This girl—she was the image of classic English beauty come to life. Gorgeous slate-blue eyes stared at him, but Jack had the eerie certainty that she did not see him at all. Instead she was focused on something far away, or perhaps deep inside. Red-gold curls framed high curving cheeks, smooth, ivory skin gone pale with fright and a slender little nose covered with the faintest smattering of freckles.

And her mouth. His own went dry—because all the fluids in his body were rushing south. A siren’s mouth: wide and dusky pink and irresistible. He stared, saw the sudden trembling of that incredibly plump lower lip—and he realised just what it was he was looking at.

Immense sorrow. A portrait of profound loss. The sight of it set off an alarm inside of Jack and awoke a heretofore unsuspected part of his character. He’d never been the heroic, knight-in-shining-armour sort—but that quivering lower lip made him want to jump into the fray. He could not quell the sudden urge to fight this unknown girl’s battles, soothe her hurts, or, better yet, kiss her senseless until she forgot what upset her and realised that there were a thousand better uses for that voluptuous mouth.

He swallowed convulsively, tightened his grip on her arm … and thankfully, came back to his senses. They stood in the middle of a busy London street. Catcalls and shouts and several anatomically impossible suggestions echoed from the surrounding bustle of stopped traffic. A begrimed coal carter had stepped forwards to help his brother calm the bays. Several of society’s finest, dressed for the daily strut and starved for distraction, gawked from the pavement.

‘Come,’ Jack said gently. Her steps wooden, the girl followed. He led her out of the street, past the sputtering red-faced gentleman, towards the Grosvenor Gate. Surely someone would claim her. He darted a glance back at the man who had fallen into step behind them. Someone other than this man—who had apparently left her to be run down like a dog in the street.

Lily was lost in a swirling fog. It had roiled up and out of her in the moment when she had fully understood her predicament. Her life was never going to change. Just the echo of that thought brought the mist suffocatingly close. She abandoned herself to it. She’d rather suffocate than contemplate the stifling mess her life had become.

Only vaguely was she aware that the stampeding horses had stopped. Dimly she realised that a stranger led her out of the street. The prickle of her skin told her that people were staring. She couldn’t bring herself to care.

‘Lilith!’ Her mother’s strident voice pierced the fog. ‘Lilith! Are you unharmed? What were you thinking?’

Anger and resentment surged inside of her, exploded out of her and blew a hole in the circling fog. It was big enough for her to catch a glimpse of her mother’s worried scowl as she hurried down from Mr Wilberforce’s barouche, and to take in the crowd forming around them.

Her gaze fell on the man who had saved her from herself and she forgot to speak. She stilled. Just at that moment a bright ray of sunlight broke free from the clouds. It shone down directly on to the gentleman, chasing streaks through his hair and outlining the masculine lines of his face. With a whoosh the fog surrounding her disappeared, swept away by the brilliant light and the intensity of the stranger’s stare.

Lily swallowed. The superstitious corner of her soul sprang to attention. Her heart began to pound loudly in her ears.

The clouds shifted overhead and the sunbeam disappeared. Now Lily could see the man clearly. Still her pulse beat out a rapid tune. Tall and slender, he was handsome in a rumpled, poetic sort of way. A loose black sling cradled one arm and, though it was tucked inside the dark brown superfine of his coat, she noticed that he held it close as if it ached.

His expression held her in thrall. He’d spoken harshly to her just a moment ago, hadn’t he? Now, though his colour was high, his anger seemed to have disappeared as quickly as her hazy confusion. He stared at her with an odd sort of bated hunger. A smile lurked at the edge of his mouth, small and secretive, as if it were meant just for her. The eyes watching her so closely were hazel, a sorry term for such a fascinating mix of green and gold and brown. Curved at their corners were the faintest laugh lines.

So many details, captured in an instant. Together they spoke to her, sending the message that here was a man with experience. Someone who knew passion, and laughter and pain. Here was a man, they whispered, who knew that life was meant to be enjoyed.

‘Lilith—’ her mother’s voice sounded irritated ‘—have you been hurt?’

Lily forced herself to look away from the stranger. ‘No, Mother, I am fine.’

Her mother continued to stare expectantly, but Lily kept quiet. For once, it was not she who was going to explain herself.

Thwarted, Mrs Beecham turned to Mr Cooperage, who lurked behind the strange gentleman. ‘Mr Cooperage?’ was all that she asked.

The missionary flushed. ‘Your daughter does not favour …’ he paused and glanced at the stranger ‘… the matter we discussed last week.’

‘Does not favour—?’ Lilith’s mother’s lips compressed to a foreboding thin line.

Mr Cooperage glanced uneasily at the man again and then at the crowd still gathered loosely around them. ‘Perhaps you might step aside to have a quiet word with me?’ His next words looked particularly hard for him to get out. ‘I’m sure your daughter would like the chance to … thank … this gentleman?’

‘Mr …?’ Her mother raked the stranger with a glare, then waited with a raised brow.

The stranger bowed. Lily thought she caught a faint grimace of pain in his eyes. ‘Mr Alden, ma’am.’

‘Mr Alden.’ Her mother’s gaze narrowed. ‘I trust my daughter will be safe with you for a moment?’

‘Of course.’

The crowd, deprived of further drama, began to disperse. Lily’s mother stepped aside and bent to listen to an urgently whispering Mr Cooperage. Lily did not waste a moment considering them. She knew what they discussed. She remembered the haze that had almost engulfed her. It had swept away and left her with a blinding sense of clarity.

‘I admit to a ravening curiosity.’ Mr Alden spoke low and his voice sounded slightly hoarse. It sent a shiver down Lily’s spine. ‘Do you wish to?’ He raised a questioning brow at her.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Do I wish to what?’

‘Wish to thank me for nearly running you down in the street while driving a team I clearly should not have been?’ He gestured to the sling. ‘I assure you, I had planned to most humbly beg your pardon, but if you’d rather thank me instead …’

Lily laughed. She did not have to consider the question. The answer, along with much else, was clear at last. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘even when you phrase it in such a way. I do wish to thank you.’

He looked a little taken aback, and more than a little interested. ‘Then you must be a very odd sort of female,’ he said. She felt the heat of the glance that roamed over her, even though he had assumed a clinical expression. ‘Don’t be afraid to admit it,’ he said. He leaned in close, as if confiding a secret. ‘Truly, the odd sorts of females are the only ones I can abide.’ He smiled at her.

She stared. His words were light and amusing, but that smile? It was wicked. ‘Ah, but can they abide you, sir?’

The smile vanished. ‘Perhaps the odd ones can,’ he said.

The words might have been cynical, or they might have been a joke. Lily watched his face closely, looking for a clue, but she could not decipher his expression. His eyes shone, intense as he spoke again.

‘So, tell me …’ He lowered his voice a bit. ‘What sort of female are you, then?’

No one had ever asked her such a thing. She did not know how to answer. The question stumped her—and made her unbearably sad. That clarity only extended so far, it would seem.

‘Miss?’ he prompted.

‘I don’t know,’ she said grimly. ‘But I think it is time I found out.’

The shadow had moved back in, Jack could see it lurking behind her eyes. And after he’d worked so hard to dispel it, too.

Work was an apt description. He was not naturally glib like his brother. He had no patience with meaningless societal rituals. A little disturbing, then, that it was no chore to speak with this woman.

She stirred his interest—an unusual occurrence with a lady of breeding. In Jack’s experience women came in two varieties: those who simulated emotion for the price of a night, and those who manufactured emotion for a tumultuous lifetime sentence.

Jack did not like emotion. It was the reason he despised the tense and edgy stranger he had lately become. He understood that emotion was an integral part of human life and relationships. He experienced it frequently himself. He held his family in affection. He respected his mentors and colleagues. Attraction, even lust, was a natural phenomenon he allowed himself to explore to the fullest. He just refused to be controlled by such sentiments.

Emotional excess invariably became complicated and messy and as far as he’d been able to determine, the benefits rarely outweighed the consequences. Scholarship, he’d discovered, was safe. Reason and logic were his allies, his companions, his shields. If one must deal with excessive emotions at all, it was best to view them through the lens of learning. It was far more comfortable, after all, to make a study of rage or longing than to experience it oneself. Such things were of interest in Greek tragedy, but dashed inconvenient in real life.

Logic dictated, therefore, that he should have been repelled by this young beauty. She reeked of emotion. She had appeared to be at the mercy of several very strong sensations in succession. Jack should have felt eager to escape her company.

But as had happened all too frequently in the last weeks, his reason deserted him. He was not wild to make his apologies and move on. He wanted to discover how she would look under the onslaught of the next feeling. Would those warm blue eyes ice over in anger? Could he make that gorgeous wide mouth quiver in desire?

‘Mister Alden.’

His musings died a quick death. That ringing voice was familiar.

‘Lady Ashford.’ He knew before he even turned around.

‘I am unsurprised to find you in the midst of this ruckus, Mr Alden.’ The countess skimmed over to them and pinned an eagle eye on the girl. ‘But you disappoint me, Miss Beecham.’

The name reverberated inside Jack’s head, sending a jolt down his spine. Beecham? The girl’s name was Beecham? It was a name that had weighed heavily on his mind of late.

They were joined again by the girl’s mother and the red-faced Mr Cooperage, but Lady Ashford had not finished with the young lady.

‘There are two, perhaps three, men in London who are worth throwing yourself under the wheels of a carriage, Miss Beecham. I regret to inform you that Mr Alden is not one of them.’

No one laughed. Jack was relieved, because he rather thought that the countess meant what she said.

Clearly distressed, the girl had no answer. Jack was certainly not fool enough to respond. Fortunately for them both, someone new pushed her way through the crowd. It was his mother, coming to the rescue.

Lady Dayle burst into their little group like a siege mortar hitting a French garrison. Passing Jack by, she scattered the others as she rushed to embrace the girl like a long-lost daughter. She clucked, she crooned, she examined her at arm’s length and then held her fast to her bosom.

‘Jack Alden,’ she scolded, ‘I could scarcely believe it when I heard that you were the one disrupting the fair and causing such a frenzy of gossip! People are saying you nearly ran this poor girl down in the street!’ Her gaze wandered over to the phaeton and fell on Charles. He gave a little wave of his hand, but did not leave the horses.

‘Charles! I should have known you would be mixed up in this. Shame on the pair of you!’ She stroked the girl’s arm. ‘Poor lamb! Are you sure you are unhurt?’

Had Jack been a boy, he might have been resentful that his mother’s attention was focused elsewhere. He was not. He was a man grown, and therefore only slightly put out that he could not show the girl the same sort of consideration.

Mrs Beecham looked outraged. Miss Beecham merely looked confused. Lady Ashford looked as if she’d had enough.

‘Elenor,’ the countess said, ‘you are causing another scene. I do not want these people to stand and watch you cluck like a hen with one chick. I want them to go inside and spend their money at my fair. Do take your son and have his arm seen to.’

‘Oh, Jack,’ his mother reproved, her arm still wrapped comfortingly about the girl. ‘Have you re-injured your arm?’

Lady Ashford let her gaze slide over the rest of the group. ‘Elenor dear, do let go of the girl and take him to find out. Mr Cooperage, you will come with me and greet the women who labour in your interest today. The rest of you may return to what you were doing.’

‘Lilith has had a fright, Lady Ashford,’ Mrs Beecham said firmly. ‘I’ll just take her back to our rooms.’

‘Nonsense, that will leave the Book Table unattended,’ the countess objected.

‘Nevertheless …’ Mrs Beecham’s lips were folded extremely thin.

‘I shall see to her,’ Lady Dayle declared. ‘Jack, can you take us in your … Oh, I see. Whose vehicle are you driving, dear? Never mind, I shall just get a hackney to take us home.’

Mrs Beecham started to protest, and a general babble of conversation broke out. It was put to rout by Lady Ashford. ‘Very well,’ she declared loudly and everyone else fell silent. ‘You can trust Lady Dayle to see to your daughter, Mrs Beecham. I will take you to fetch the girl myself once the day is done.’

She paused to point a finger. ‘Mr Wilberforce’s barouche is still here. I’m certain he will not mind dropping the pair of them off,’ she said, ‘especially since he has only just made you a much larger request. I shall arrange it.’ She beckoned to the missionary. ‘Mr Cooperage, if you would come with me?’

Everyone moved to follow the countess’s orders. Not for the first time, Jack thought that had Lady Ashford been a man, the Peninsular War might have been but a minor skirmish.

With a last, quick glance at the girl on his mother’s arm, he turned back to his brother and the cursed team of horses.

But Lady Ashford had not done with him. ‘Are those Pettigrew’s animals, Mr Alden?’ she called. She did not wait for an answer. ‘Take yourself on home and see to your arm—and do not let Pettigrew lure you into buying those bays. I hear they are vicious.’

‘Thank you for the advice, Lady Ashford,’ he said, and, oddly, he meant it. Charles stood, a knowing grin spreading rapidly across his face.

‘Not a word, Charles,’ Jack threatened.

‘I wasn’t going to say a thing.’

Wincing, Jack climbed up into the rig and took up the ribbons. Charles took his seat beside him and leaned back, silent, but with a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

‘The girl’s surname is Beecham.’

Charles sat a little straighter. ‘Beecham?’ he repeated with studied nonchalance. ‘It’s a common enough name.’

‘It’s that shipbuilder’s name and you know it, Charles. The man who is supposedly mixed up with Batiste.’

His brother sighed. ‘It’s not your responsibility to bring that scoundrel of a sea captain to justice, Jack.’

Jack stilled. A wave of frustration and anger swept over him at his brother’s words. He fought to recover his equilibrium. This volatility was unacceptable. He must regain control.

‘I know that,’ he said tightly. ‘But I can’t focus on anything else. I keep thinking of Batiste skipping away without so much as a slap on the hand.’ Charles was the only person to whom Jack had confided the truth about his wound and the misadventures that had led to it. Even then, there were details he’d been honour-bound to hold back. ‘It’s bad enough that the man is a thief and a slaver as well. But by all accounts the man is mad—I worry that he might come after old Mervyn Latimer again, or even try to avenge himself on Trey and Chione.’

It wasn’t Charles’s fault that he couldn’t understand. Though he knew most of the story, he didn’t know about the aftermath. Jack didn’t want him—or anyone else—to know how intensely he’d been affected. Charles must never know about his nightmares. He didn’t understand himself how or why all this should have roused his latent resentment towards their cold and distant father, but one thing he did know—he would never burden Charles with the knowledge. His older brother had his own weighty issues to contend with in that direction.

‘Would you like me to make some inquiries?’ Charles asked.

‘Both Treyford and I already have. Batiste has disappeared. He could be anywhere. All the Foreign Office could give me was that name—Matthew Beecham. A young shipbuilder—an Englishman from Dorset who moved to America to pursue his craft. Somehow he became mixed up with Batiste, and found himself in trouble with the American government. He’s disappeared as well. The Americans have made a formal complaint against him. They want to question him and have asked that he be detained, should he show up back at home.’

‘So? Does the girl hail from Dorset? Did you ask her if she has a relative named Matthew?’

‘Not yet.’ Jack watched Charles from the corner of his eye. ‘I would dearly like to talk to the man. He’s the only link I’ve been able to find. I’m not going to be able to rest until Batiste is caught and made to pay for his crimes.’

Perched ramrod straight now, Charles looked earnest as he spoke. ‘You know, Jack, I’ve never known you to fall so quickly into something so … dangerous, as you did with Treyford.’

Jack bristled slightly.

‘Now, forget that it is your older brother speaking and calm yourself,’ Charles admonished. ‘There must have been a reason for it, something that drew you into the fray.’

There had been, of course, but he was not going to share it with his brother. Once Jack had heard Treyford’s story of a band of antiquity thieves menacing Chione Latimer and her family, he’d known he had to help. He and Charles were both all too aware of the difficulties of living with an unsettled sense of menace.

‘Whatever the reason, I, for one, am happy to see you out from behind your wall of books.’ Charles’s gaze slid over Jack’s sling. ‘I’m sorry that all you appeared to get from your adventure was a bullet hole, but I would neither see you slide back into your old hibernating ways nor allow yourself to become embroiled in something even more complicated and hazardous.’

‘What would you have me do, then?’ Jack asked with just a touch of sarcasm. ‘Embroidery? Tatting?’ He raked his brother with an exasperated glance. ‘I’ve already told you, I have neither the inclination nor the patience for politics.’

Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Why don’t you just relax, Jack? It’s been an age since either Mother or I have been able to drag you out of your rooms. Have a break from your work. Not everyone is fascinated with your mouldy classics.’

‘They should be,’ Jack said, just to tweak his brother.

Charles ignored him. ‘Look about you for once,’ he continued. ‘Enjoy the Season, squire Mother to a society event or two.’ He grimaced. ‘Or if the thought of society is too distasteful, you can help Mother and Sophie with their charitable efforts. If you had paid attention, you would see that Mother is slowly becoming more and more involved with the work that the Evangelical branch of the Church is doing. This charity bazaar she is helping with is just a small example of their work. Their presence is only growing stronger as the years pass. Who knows? They might actually succeed in changing the face of society. And you might even find whatever it is you were looking for.’

‘The only thing I’m looking for is Batiste.’

Charles sighed. ‘Well, look again, little brother.’ He leaned back again, his grip on the side tightening as the bay on the left shied from a calling-card vendor.

Jack was forced to watch the pair closely once more. His mind was awhirl. Perhaps he should consider something different from his usual classical studies—and if his new path also brought him closer to finding information on Batiste, then so much the better. If this Beecham girl and his mother were both involved with the Evangelicals, then perhaps he could look into them as well. Charles could believe what he liked about Jack’s need to find something he was missing. He knew the truth of the matter and it involved nothing so mawkish or sentimental.

And neither, he told himself firmly, did it have anything to do with the shine of red-gold hair or the taste of soft, plump lips.

Chapter Three

A stranger inhabited Lily’s skin. Or perhaps it had only been so long since determination had pumped so fiercely through her veins, it felt as if it were so. But this was the old Lily—her father’s daughter, sure and strong, confident that whatever she wished for lay within her reach. Almost as if it were happening to someone else, she watched herself talk, smile and climb into Mr Wilberforce’s barouche. He and Lady Dayle were soon engaged in a spirited debate over reform. Fortunate, since this left Lily free to turn her rediscovered resolve to answering Mr Alden’s troubling question: What sort of female are you?

She barely knew where to start, but she did discover that some aspects of the new Lily—her mother’s daughter—were not so easily discarded. And all of them were firmly fixated on the sudden burst of light that had shone down on Mr Alden for one dazzling moment. Surely it had been nothing more than a stray sunbeam?

Perhaps not. Her nurse’s superstitious Cornish wisdom had been a constant in her life and it had taken firm root in Lily’s mind while she was still young. In recent years it had flourished into a guilt-ridden tangle.

So often she’d worried that she’d missed some forewarning of her father’s tragic death. The storm that ultimately killed him had been immense. Nurse had moaned that his loss had been punishment for their failure to heed several unmistakable portents of doom.

Lily had vowed never to make another such mistake. But surely a bright beam of light was no portent of doom. Then what could it possibly mean?

With every fibre of her being, Lily wanted it to mean the change she longed for. It had touched on Mr Alden. Could it be that he would be an instrument of change? She flushed. Or was it possible that he might be something more?

‘Lady Dayle,’ she spoke up into a pause in the conversation, ‘I fear that your son has re-injured his arm because of my inattention. I wish you would convey my apologies.’

The viscountess patted her arm. ‘Do not fret yourself, my dear. Jack should not have been driving those cantankerous animals in the first place. I dare say his brother told him so. But Charles should have remembered that the instant he counselled against it, it would become the single thing in the world that must be done.’

Lily smiled. She’d grown up with her cousin Matthew and he had acted in just the same way. ‘How did Mr Alden first injure his arm?’

Lady Dayle frowned. ‘Oh, he got caught up in that trouble at the Egyptian Hall, at Mr Belzoni’s exhibition. I haven’t the faintest idea how or why—I had no inkling that Jack even knew Belzoni or Lord Treyford. It was just a few weeks ago—perhaps you heard of it?’

Lily shook her head.

‘Yes, I heard of it,’ Mr Wilberforce intervened. ‘A ring of international art thieves, or something similar, was it not?’

‘Something like,’ Lady Dayle agreed. ‘Jack will barely speak of it—even to me. And believe me, when her son is shot, a mother wants to know why.’

‘Good heavens,’ Lily said. She stirred in her seat. ‘Shot? Mr Alden must lead quite an exciting life.’

‘But that is just it! The entire thing was so patently unlike him. Jack is a scholar, Miss Beecham, and a brilliant one at that. At times he is all but a recluse. He spends more time closeted with his ancient civilisations than with anyone flesh and blood.’ She shot Mr Wilberforce a significant look. ‘He is my inscrutable son, sir, and too reserved and detached from society to cause me much concern—especially compared to the rigmarole his brothers subjected me to.’

Mr Wilberforce laughed, but Lily fought back an undeniable surge of disappointment. A scholar? Inscrutable and reserved? It didn’t fit the image she’d already built around that wicked smile.

But what did she know of men? An image of her father flashed in her mind. He dwelled heavily in her mind today—a natural reaction on a day when her past and her future appeared destined to collide. On the rare occasion she allowed herself to dream, the portrait she drew of a husband always shared important traits with George Beecham: twinkling eyes, a ready smile and a never-ending thirst for the next new experience. Never would she have conjured up a dry, dusty scholar who hid from life behind his books.

Lily had been hiding for seven long years. She’d done with it. She wasn’t her father’s little girl any more, but neither would she continue as her mother’s quiet handmaiden. She fought back a surge of guilt. She didn’t mean to abandon her mother, nor did she wish to give up the good works she had done along with her. She only wanted the chance to live her own life, while she worked to help others better theirs. Superstition would not make that chance happen. Neither, it seemed, would Mr Alden. She clenched her fists. She would find a way, and do it herself.

It was time she melded the two halves of her soul and finally answered that pesky question. It was time she discovered who Lily Beecham was.

Jack kept his senses alert, his eye sharp for movement in the roadway ahead. This was likely not the best time to be skulking about the East End, especially not on his own. But his eagerness for his brother’s company had waned after listening to his admonitions and advice this afternoon. Charles would only have tried to talk him out of coming down here at all.

So Jack had dropped off his brother and then returned Pettigrew’s nasty bays, and now he found his feet taking him towards the river, towards the reputedly abandoned shipping offices of Gustavo Batiste.

Little Bure Street was not exactly a hotbed of activity in the late evening. A pair of prostitutes propositioned him from a doorway, but he shook his head and continued on. No doubt anyone with legitimate business in these dockside buildings had long since gone home, but the full swing of the illicit enterprises of the night had not yet begun. It didn’t matter; the alleyway he sought lay just ahead. Jack slipped in and stood a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the deeper blackness before he moved forwards cautiously. He flexed his sore arm as he went. The narrow space was more a passage than a street, but it opened on to a small walled courtyard at the end. Opposite him a rickety set of wooden stairs led to an office. Across the doorway sagged a crooked sign: G. Batiste & Co.

Mervyn Latimer and Treyford had both warned him this would be a waste of time. The offices had been deserted for months. But Jack had a need to see for himself. He eased up the stairs, careful to keep his footsteps quiet.

The door was not locked. Jack pushed it open with his free hand and was forced to stop again and adjust his eyesight. It was pitch black in the small anteroom. It took several long moments for his eyes to adapt, but there was nothing to see once they had. A listing table, a couple of small chairs and dust lying thick on every surface. He shook his head. What had he expected? He was grasping at straws. His obsession with Batiste was not logical, his involuntary association of the villain with his dead father utterly without a rational basis.

From the back of the building came a thump and a muffled curse. Jack froze. His pulse began to race. Slowly he reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. He’d taken to keeping it there, since his misadventures with Treyford. It felt awkward and unbalanced in his left hand, but it was better than nothing.

A closed door lay to the right of the broken table. He eased it open and found another narrow hallway. Several more doors were closed on either side, but the last one on the right stood cracked open, a faint light shining from within.

Who could it be? Silently he made his way there. He flattened himself against the wall and eased his arm from the sling. From inside the room came the sound of rustling papers and opening drawers. Grimacing at the strain, he placed his right hand on the doorway and gripped his knife tight with the other.

Thwang. Jack stared in shock and fascination as a wickedly vibrating blade abruptly sprouted from the opposite doorframe.

‘I got another o’ those,’ a voice rasped from within. ‘But this building’s cheap and that wall is paper thin. I’m thinkin’ it might just be easier to shoot you through it.’

The tension unexpectedly drained out of Jack, replaced by a rising flood of relief. He knew that voice.

‘Eli!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s me, Jack Alden.’

The door flew open. The erstwhile sea captain turned groom stared at him in surprise. ‘Jack Alden! What in blazes are ye doing here?’

‘I might ask the same of you, old man!’ Jack pocketed his own blade and thumped the grizzled old sailor on the shoulder. Eli grunted and crossed back to the desk he’d been rifling through. The rap of his peg-leg on the wooden floor sounded loud in the small office. Jack pulled the blade from the doorframe.

‘How’s the arm?’ Eli asked. ‘Ye look a sight better’n the last time I saw ye.’

‘It’s healing. But why aren’t you in Devonshire with Mervyn and Trey and Chione and all the rest of them? They’ve all got to be busy, what with a wedding to plan and one hell of trip coming up.’

‘Aye, ’tis a madhouse at times.’ He held out a hand and Jack gave back his knife. With a sigh he slammed a drawer shut and sat in the seat behind the desk. ‘Mervyn and Trey sent me up. Something’s astir.’

‘Batiste?’ Jack asked, with a sweep of his hand.

‘You know Mervyn’s ways. He’s got ears everywhere and hears every bird fart and every whisper o’ trouble. He’s got word that some of Batiste’s men are on the move. Here. In England.’

Anger surged in Jack’s gut. ‘God, it eats at me, knowing he got away,’ he said. The low and harsh tone of his voice surprised even him. He struggled again to rein in his emotion. ‘I hate the thought of it—him sitting back, silent and scornful, manipulating us like so many puppets.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘After all he’s done to Mervyn, he needs to be brought to justice.’

‘What he’s done to Mervyn’s bad enough. But he’s done others far worse. What worrit’s me is the idea of him having time to stew. Revenge is his favourite dish and he’ll be spittin’ mad at how we foiled him.’

‘So what do you hope to find here?’

Eli glanced at him. ‘The same thing you were, I s’pose. Some hint o’ where he might be hiding out. With the Americans after him as well as the Royal Navy, he’s got to lie low for a while.’

‘The bastard’s got a ship and the whole world to hide in.’ Jack sighed.

‘Trey thinks he won’t go too far. He didn’t get what he wanted, and he thinks he’ll try again. Like any man, he’ll have a spot or two he goes to when his back is against the wall. Trouble is findin’ it.’

Jack stood a little straighter. ‘I might have a lead on that shipbuilder, Beecham. Perhaps he knows where Batiste would go to hide his head.’

‘Do what ye can, man.’ Eli sighed. ‘I know Trey hates to ask ye—especially after ye got hurt the first time. But won’t none of us be truly safe until that man is caught and hung.’

‘I will. Tell Trey I will handle it.’ He stared at the old man with resolution. ‘In fact, I think it should be possible for me to begin right now.’

‘Mr Wilberforce asked you to do what?’ Lily’s dish of tea hovered, halfway up. The evening had grown late. Lady Ashford and her mother had arrived to fetch her, and Lady Dayle had pressed them to stay for a cold supper.

‘To make a tour through Surrey and Kent, speaking with local groups of Evangelicals along the way,’ her mother repeated.

‘Your mother has accomplished wonders in Weymouth, Miss Beecham.’ Lady Ashworth accepted a slice of cheese from the platter Lady Dayle offered. ‘She can share her methods and be an inspiration to many others.’

‘Of course.’ Lily’s mind raced. This was just exactly what she’d wished for; a chance to travel, to see new places and meet new people. Her breathing quickened and her pulse began to beat a little faster. ‘Mother, I’m so proud of you.’

‘Congratulations, Mrs Beecham,’ said Lady Dayle. ‘You shall be one of the leading ladies of a very great movement. And to have the request come from Mr Wilberforce himself is quite an honour, is it not?’

‘Thank you, it is indeed an honour.’ Her mother looked exhausted. Lily felt a twinge of guilt. She’d spent a perfectly lovely afternoon with the viscountess and her mother had not even had a chance to celebrate her accomplishment.

‘Will we be returning home first, Mother? Or shall we leave straight from town?’ she asked. ‘Either way, we must be sure that you rest beforehand. I can see you are quite worn out.’

An uncomfortable look passed across her mother’s face. ‘I’ll be leaving from London in a few days, dear. Lady Ashford has graciously agreed to accompany me.’ She met Lily’s eye with resolve. ‘You will be returning home.’

‘What?’ This time she was forced to set her cup down with shaking hands. ‘You cannot mean that!’

‘We’ve been away from home too long as it is. Someone needs to oversee the Parish Poor Relief Committee. The planning needs to begin now for the Michaelmas festival. We cannot abandon our duty to those less fortunate.’

‘There are plenty of ladies at home willing and able to take care of those things,’ Lily argued. ‘Mother, please!’ Resentment and disbelief churned in her belly. It was true that her mother had found less and less joy in life over the years. Her father’s death had been a blow to them both. Grief and guilt were heavy burdens to bear, but Lily had been forced to cope alone. Sometimes she felt she had grieved twice over, for her quiet, reserved mother had sunk into a decline and a militant stranger had climbed out the other side.

Restrictive, distant, hard to please—yes. But Lily had never suspected her mother of deliberate cruelty before today. First Mr Cooperage and now—

She stopped, aghast. ‘Does Mr Cooperage factor into this decision, Mother? Because I tell you now that I am not interested in his views on any subject!’

‘Lilith!’ her mother gasped. ‘We will not discuss it further. This is entirely inappropriate!’

‘Well then, it appears I have arrived at the perfect time,’ an amused masculine voice interrupted.

Lily turned to find Mr Alden framed handsomely in the doorway. An instant flush began to spread up and over her. Was she doomed to always encounter this man at a serious disadvantage?

He advanced into the room and she tried to collect herself. Not an easy task. Poetic—that was the word that had sprung to mind earlier. Brooding was the one that popped up now. Darkly handsome and brooding. Though he had a sardonic smile hovering at the corner of his mouth, the effect was ruined by the rest of him. She just could not be entirely intimidated by anyone in that rumpled state. He looked as if his valet had dressed him in the height of fashion, in only the best silk and superfine, and then laid him down and rolled him repeatedly about on the bed. She tightened her mouth at the image evoked and her flush grew stronger yet. A great many women, she strongly suspected, would enjoy rolling Mr Alden about on the bed.

‘Jack, darling.’ Lady Dayle rose to welcome her son. ‘Do come in and join us. The ladies have only just finished with the fair and we are taking a cold supper.’

He kissed his mother on the cheek and made an elegant bow to the rest of the ladies. Lily shifted slightly away as he took the chair directly next to hers.

‘I should thank you right away, Miss Beecham,’ he said with a quirk of a smile in her direction. ‘Usually I am the one for ever introducing inappropriate topics to the conversation. My brother informs me that virtually no one else cares for my mouldy ancients.’ He leaned back. The seating was so close that Lily could feel the heat emanating from him. ‘But you have saved me the trouble.’ He raised a brow at her. ‘Which distasteful subject have you brought to the table?’

‘Never mind that, Jack,’ scolded his mother. ‘Mrs Beecham has been granted a singular honour. We are celebrating.’

Lady Ashford explained while Lily fumed.

‘My heartfelt congratulations,’ Mr Alden said to her mother when the countess had finished. He turned again to Lily. ‘I’m sure you will enjoy the journey, Miss Beecham. There are some amazingly picturesque vistas in that part of the country.’

‘I am not to go, Mr Alden.’ Lily could not keep the anger completely from her tone. ‘I am instead sent home like a wayward child.’

She noticed that he grew very still. ‘Where is home, if I might ask?’

‘In Dorset, near Weymouth,’ she answered, though she did not see the relevance of the question.

‘Ah.’ He steepled his fingers and thought a moment. ‘I suppose I can understand your mother’s point of view.’

Irritation nearly choked Lily. She glared at him.

‘You can?’ asked her mother in surprise.

‘Yes, well, it is only fair to consider both sides of the argument, and you must admit that travelling with an innocent young girl must always be complicated.’

‘Innocent young girl?’ Lily objected. ‘I am nearly three and twenty and I have seen and done many things in the course of my volunteer work.’

‘I do not doubt you, but the fact remains that you are a young, unmarried lady. As such you will most likely require frequent stops to rest, and special arrangements for private parlours to shield you from the coarser elements. If you stay at private homes, there will have to be thought given as to whether or not any single gentlemen are in residence. Not to mention that you will have to have a chaperon for every minute of every day. Without a doubt, two older, more mature ladies will travel easier alone.’

Lily gaped at him.

‘You can see the logic of the situation.’ He nodded towards her.

‘There are so many things wrong with that litany of statements that I must give serious consideration on where to begin,’ she responded.

‘Do tell,’ he invited. That lurking grin spread a little wider.

‘I could refute your errors one by one, but instead I will merely ask you if you have any sisters, Mr Alden?’

‘Nary a one.’

‘Then I fail to see where you might have come by any experience travelling with innocent young ladies,’ she said hotly. ‘And if you are in the habit of consorting with other types, then I would only beg you not to equate me with them!’

‘Lilith!’ Her mother was clearly scandalised.

Lady Dayle, however, laughed. ‘Bravo, Miss Beecham! You have routed him in one fell swoop. But now you are both guilty of introducing inappropriate topics to the conversation, so let us talk of something else.’ She frowned at her son. ‘Do not tease the dear girl, Jack. I believe it is a real disappointment for her.’

Mr Alden nodded at his mother, then spared a glance for Lily. Mortified, she avoided his eye.

Lady Ashford offered him the tray of biscuits. He took one and Lily saw him blink thoughtfully at the countess. ‘Will the two of you exceptional ladies be travelling alone?’ he asked in an innocent tone.

‘In fact, we will not,’ the countess answered. ‘Mr Cooperage will accompany us. We thought it possible to also raise money for his mission as we travel.’

‘I knew it!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘Only today he informed me that he did not approve of ladies travelling from home.’ She cast a disparaging glance at Mr Alden. ‘I just did not expect to find other gentlemen in agreement with such an antiquated notion.’

‘I said no such thing,’ he protested. ‘I said it was complicated, not that it should not be done. Is Mr Cooperage the gentleman from Park Lane, the one who was with you when you had your … near accident?’

‘He is.’

‘And he is an Evangelical, is he not?’

‘He is. Why do you ask?’

Mr Alden drew a deep breath. He sat a little straighter. For the first time Lily noticed true animation in his face and a light begin to shine in his eye.

‘I ask because I admit to some curiosity about the Evangelicals. For instance, I find their attitudes towards women to be conflicting and confusing.’

‘How so, Mr Alden?’ Lady Ashford bristled a little.

‘Hannah More argues that women are cheated out of an education and are thus made unfit to be mothers and moral guides. She advocates educating women, but only to a degree. Evangelicals encourage women to confine themselves to domestic concerns, but when their important issues take the stage—abolition of the slave trade, or changing the East India Company’s charter to allow missionaries into India—they urge them to boycott, to petition, to persuade.’

‘Women are perfectly able to understand and embrace such issues, Mr Alden.’ Now Lily bristled at the thought of this dangerously intelligent and handsome man negating the causes she had worked for.

‘I agree, Miss Beecham. In fact, in encouraging such participation, I would say that the Evangelicals have opened the political process to a far wider public.’

Understanding dawned. She cast a bright smile on him. ‘Yes, of course you are correct,’ Lily said, turning to her mother. ‘You see, Mother, I have petitioned for change, educated people about the work that needs done and laboured myself for the common good. What is a little trip through Kent when compared to all of that?’

‘That was not my point,’ Mr Alden interrupted. ‘On the contrary, I counsel you ladies to proceed with caution. People are noticing the good that you have accomplished. But if they begin to suspect that Evangelicals encourage women to rise beyond their station—not my words, by the way—then you could have a public uprising on your hands.’

‘Like the Blagdon Controversy,’ breathed Mrs Beecham, referring to the extensive public outcry against Hannah More’s Sunday Schools as dangerous and ‘Methodist’.

‘It could be far worse,’ Mr Alden said. ‘Women do not rate any higher on the Church of England’s scale than Methodists.’

‘Thank you, Mr Alden,’ Lady Ashford intoned. ‘You have given us a great deal to consider. We shall proceed with care.’ She fixed a stern gaze on Lily. ‘You can see that it would indeed be best for you to stay home, Miss Beecham. Old warhorses like your mother and I are one thing. We would not wish to be accused of corrupting young ladies.’

Lily lowered her gaze. Hurt and dismay congealed in her throat, choking off any protest. She barely knew Mr Alden; it was ridiculous to feel this bone-deep sense of betrayal. But she could not stem it, any more than she could hold back the rising tide of anger in her breast. She raised her head and met Mr Alden’s gaze with a steely one of her own.

‘I cannot see where sending Miss Beecham home on the mail coach is any kinder or gentler than carting her around Surrey.’ Mr Alden’s eyes never left hers as he spoke. ‘Clearly, the best thing for her to do is to remain here.’

Lily forgave the irritating man everything on the spot. ‘Oh, yes! What a marvellous idea!’

Lily’s mother sniffed. ‘Well, I cannot see that a residence with a single gentleman in London is any less dangerous than one in Faversham.’

‘But the Bartleighs, Mother!’ Lily exclaimed.

Lady Ashford sent her an enquiring look and she hastened to explain. ‘Very dear friends of ours, from home,’ she said. ‘They are due to arrive in London soon, for a short stay. Mother, you know they would not mind if I stayed with them.’

‘Lilith Beecham,’ her mother scolded, ‘the Bartleighs are travelling to town to consult with the doctors here, not to chaperon you. I wouldn’t ask it of them, even if they were due to arrive before we are gone, which they are not.’

But Lady Dayle was nearly jumping out of her seat. ‘Oh, but Lily must stay with me! You need not worry, Mrs Beecham, for Jack has his own bachelor’s rooms. I scarcely see him at the best of times, and now he talks of burying himself in his books for his next research project.’

Lily watched her mother and began to hope.

‘It will be just Miss Beecham and I,’ the viscountess continued. ‘How perfect! She can help to introduce me to some of the worthy causes you ladies support, and I can introduce her a little to society.’

Lily’s heart sank. That had been the absolute wrong thing to suggest.

‘We are honoured by your invitation, my lady, but I do not wish for Lilith to go into society.’ Her mother’s mouth had pressed so tight that her lips had disappeared.

‘Come now, dear Margaret.’ The unexpected, coaxing tone came from Lady Ashford. ‘It will not do the girl any harm to gain a little polish. She’ll likely need it in the future.’

Her mother hesitated. Lily’s heart was pounding, but she kept her eyes demurely down. The moment of silence stretched out, until she thought her nerves would shatter.

‘I shall ask my dear daughter Corinne to help with the girl,’ Lady Ashford said. ‘You know that she and her husband are familiar with the right people. Although she is too far along in her confinement to take the girl herself, they will know just the events that a girl like Lilith will do well at.’

‘Yes, of course, nothing fast or too tonnish,’ said Lady Dayle in reassuring tones. ‘Perhaps a literary or musical evening.’

Her mother heaved a great sigh. ‘Very well,’ she said ungraciously.

‘Oh,’ breathed Lily. ‘Thank you, Mother.’

Lady Dayle was positively gleeful. ‘Oh, we shall have a grand time getting to know one another, my dear.’

Lady Ashford knew when to call a retreat. She stood. ‘Well, it has been a long and tiring day and I must still see to the tally of the day’s profits. I’m sure that Mrs Beecham and her daughter will both do better for a good night’s rest.’ She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Elenor, for the tea and for your interest.’

The farewells were made. Lily returned the viscountess’s embrace and agreed to meet to make plans on the morrow. She approached her son with a cautious step and a wary glance. ‘Mr Alden, I scarcely know what to say to you.’

She flinched a little at the disapproval she glimpsed in his expression. But then she squared her shoulders. She had faced disapprobation nearly every day for years. Why should his stab any deeper?

‘Thank you for everything that you have done for me today,’ she said with a smile, ‘Even though I’m sure some of it was quite unintentional.’

He bowed. ‘I am very happy to have met you, Miss Beecham. It has been an … interesting experience.’

Once again he had donned that impenetrable mask. It saddened her, this barrier that she could not breach. Earlier today he had handled a difficult situation with humour and ease. But now he only looked worldly and cynical. How disappointing. He obviously possessed a great mind. She suspected he also possessed a sense of justice, perhaps even a thoughtful nature, but how could she know for sure?

This was her chance. Lily knew there would still be restrictions, but she could not suppress this glorious feeling of freedom. For a few weeks she would be able to relax, to give her true nature free rein. Perhaps if she was very lucky she might even find a position, or, she blushed, a suitor. Anything to supplant her mother’s idea for her future.

Lily knew she owed Mr Alden for this chance, and, indeed, she was grateful. But staring into his closed countenance, she knew she had no time to waste on him.

‘Goodbye,’ she whispered. She turned wistfully away and followed her mother out the door.

Lady Dayle chattered happily for a few minutes after her guests had left. Jack listened to her, content to see her so excited about the coming weeks. When the servants came in to clear, he rose, kissed her goodbye and let the butler show him out. The door clicked closed behind him. Jack stood for a long moment on the step, breathing deep in the cold evening air.

The girl was from Dorset. He was going to do it—he was going to find Matthew Beecham, who would lead him to Batiste. He no longer knew if it was truly justice he sought, or some twisted sort of redemption. He no longer cared. He was going to quiet the roiling furore that had turned his existence upside down.

It would take some delicate manoeuvring, he was sure. He was going to have to proceed very carefully. He was more than a little disturbed by his own actions. Right now he stood, evaluating his options with reason and purpose. That had not been the case in there.

He’d done what he could to manipulate the situation in his favour. And he’d succeeded. But one minute he’d been speaking like a man of sense and the next Lily Beecham had been glaring at him with accusation in her lovely face.

It had done something to him. His brain had shut down with a nearly audible click. He had spoken up to fix the situation with her goal in mind as much as his, and with an overwhelming desire to remove the wealth of hurt in her eyes.

It was a very dangerous precedent. It had been an unthinking response, an action dictated by emotion. Clearly this was a very dangerous girl.

Yet having recognised his weakness, he was armed against it. He would proceed, as he always did, with logic and reason as his weapons. And a healthy dose of caution as his shield.

Chapter Four

Lily closed her eyes and let her heart soar with the music. Happiness filled her and she didn’t even try to stem it—the ascending harmonies matched her mood so perfectly.

The last several days spent with Lady Dayle had been full—and incredibly fulfilling. The pair of them had shopped a little, and explored much of what the city had to offer. Lily had lost herself in fine art and turned her skin brown picnicking in the parks. They had encountered Miss Dawson again and Lily had struck up a fast friendship with the young lady, and she’d coaxed her into showing her all the fashionable—and safe—areas of the city.

Lily had laughed at the raucous prints lining the shop windows and lusted after the huge selections in the bookstores. Best of all, she had spent endless hours talking and talking with the viscountess. Seven years of questions, comments and contemplations had bubbled up and out of her and Lady Dayle had matched her word for word. And though she did not share in it completely, the viscountess had not once chastised her for her boundless energy or curiosity.

Lily had not forgotten her end of the bargain either. She’d taken Lady Dayle along to several meetings of charitable societies and introduced her to the hard-working, generous people who ran them. The viscountess appeared happy to be wading into these new waters, getting her feet wet and judging which of the endless charitable opportunities interested her most.

Tonight, though, came Lily’s first society outing. Lady Dayle had indeed chosen a musical evening. All about her sat people who took pleasure in each other and in the beauty of the music, and finally Lily felt the last of her restraints fall away. Her spirits flew free to follow the intricate melodies of the string quartet. Even the gradual darkening of the piece could not shake her enjoyment. The beauty of the mournful finish echoed within her and when the last haunting chord faded away she sat silent a moment, relishing it, and ignoring the silent stream of tears down her face.

‘Oh, my dear,’ Lady Dayle said kindly. She pressed Lily’s hand and passed her a linen handkerchief.

Lily smiled her thanks and dried her eyes. She was attracting attention. Two ladies behind the viscountess smiled indulgently at her, but further away she could see others watching with their heads together or talking behind their hands. She raised her chin. ‘That was absolutely beautiful, was it not, my lady?’

‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Lady Dayle. She got to her feet as the rest of the guests rose.

‘I’d forgotten that music could touch you so deeply.’ Lily sighed, following. ‘Will they be doing another piece?’

‘Before the evening is over they will. There is an intermission now, with food and the chance to mingle with the others.’ Lady Dayle flashed a smile over her shoulder. ‘Mrs Montague has asked that her guests also take part in the entertainment. Should you like to play? You mentioned the pianoforte, I believe.’

‘Oh, no.’ Lily laughed. ‘It has been so long since I played anything other than hymns, and I doubt the company would be interested.’

‘I think it would be very well received. This is the most fascinatingly diverse mix of people I’ve seen in a long time.’ She gestured to a corner where a footman with a platter of hot oyster loaves stood surrounded by eager guests. ‘Where else have you ever seen a bishop laughing genially with a patroness of Almack’s and a banking magnate? Mrs Montague’s acquaintances appear to come from nearly every walk of life.’

‘I think it must be the extensive work she does for the Foundling Hospital,’ Lily mused. ‘It is easier to approach people when you do so for a good cause, and you quickly learn who is like-minded and who is not.’ She took a glass of wine from a passing footman, and then stared at Lady Dayle. An odd smile had blossomed suddenly on the viscountess’s face.

‘There now, Lily, you must help me test my theory. Look over my shoulder towards the door and tell me if my son Jack has not just arrived?’

Lily started. A large part of her hoped that the viscountess would be proven wrong. She had not seen Jack Alden since the day of their first dramatic encounter. It was true that she had felt happier in the intervening days than in years, but too many times she had caught herself grinning at nothing, brought to a halt by a vivid recollection of that secret smile on his handsome face.

It still piqued her that this man—the first to awaken in her such an instant, physical response—should not also be the sort of man she could be comfortable with. She battled a sense of loss too, and a relentless curiosity. Why should Jack Alden—who appeared to have every advantage—have grown so closed? What could have happened, to cause him to retreat so far into himself?

She would likely never know. But even though she knew that such a man was not for her, still she was plagued with sudden memories of the intensity of his hazel gaze, the heat of his touch upon her arm, the low rasp of his voice as he leaned close …

Stop, she ordered herself.

She took an unobtrusive step to the side and let her gaze drift towards the door. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is Mr Alden.’ Her pulse tripped, stumbled and then resumed at a ridiculously frantic rate.

He stood framed in the doorway, casually elegant and annoyingly handsome. Though he focused on greeting their hostess, even from here she could see the cool remoteness in his gaze. He was the only man of her acquaintance who could manage to look both intense and aloof in the same moment. It irritated her beyond reason.

She stepped back, placing his mother between them so he was no longer in her line of vision. She cast a curious look at Lady Dayle. ‘You are facing away from the door. How ever did you know that he had arrived?’

Lady Dayle laughed. ‘A tell-tale gust of wind.’ She nodded to the guests grouped behind Lily. ‘Jack walks in and we are treated to a phalanx of fluttering fans, flittering eyelashes and swishing skirts. It is a sure sign when I feel a breeze tugging on my coiffure.’

‘Is Mr Alden considered such a good match, then?’ Lily asked. She grinned. ‘I don’t mean to offend; it is just that Lady Ashford indicated otherwise—and in quite certain terms.’

‘Warned you off, did she? It’s to be expected. She had hopes once, you see … Well, never mind, that’s all ancient history.’ She leaned closer. ‘Jack is not approaching, is he?’

Lily carefully glanced over her shoulder. ‘No. He’s just moved past Mrs Montague. He doesn’t look at all happy to be here, I must say.’

He looked across and met her gaze right at that moment. Her composure abruptly deserted her. Face flaming, she nearly took a step backwards just from physical shock. Reminding herself to breathe, she wrenched her gaze from his, concentrating on his mother once more.

‘Good. Look at them.’ Lady Dayle indicated the gaggle of girls who were focused subtly, and in some cases downright overtly, on her son. ‘It’s because he’s so elusive, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a rare enough occasion that his brother or I can convince him to attend an event such as this. And with his name being bandied about lately after that contretemps at the Egyptian Hall, he seems to have become even more interesting.’

Lily stared thoughtfully at the hopeful girls. ‘I assume Mr Alden enjoys the attention,’ she mused.

‘I wish he did,’ Lady Dayle said flatly. ‘Truthfully, I don’t think he has the faintest notion of their interest. A fact that I believe sometimes spurs the young ladies on.’ She sighed. ‘He presents something of a challenge.’

Lily glanced carefully back in Mr Alden’s direction. She might feel a bit of sympathy for him, if she could believe him to be as unmindful of them all as his mother thought. But her own experience had shown him to be intelligent and a keen observer.

She shook her head. She did not believe it. Mr Alden simply could not be oblivious to the fervent interest directed his way. Not even he could be so selfishly unaware.

Only consider their last encounter. Her desire to accompany her mother and Lady Ashford on their trip had been obvious, yet he had not hesitated to thwart her. The thought that he might toy with these girls in a similar fashion only fuelled her aggravation with him.

Lady Dayle had turned to glance behind her. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Here he comes now.’

‘Good evening, Mother. Miss Beecham.’ Mr Alden bowed low. Her heart thundering in her ears, Lily made her curtsy and tried not to notice the way the candlelight glinted off his thick dark hair.

‘I do not have to ask if you ladies are enjoying yourselves,’ he continued. ‘Our hostess has already informed me and anyone else who would listen that Miss Beecham found herself transported by the music tonight. She is touting it as a sure sign of the success of the evening.’

Lily raised her eyebrows. ‘Mrs Montague has no need of my approval, but I should be happy to provide it. The music tonight has been stunningly beautiful—I am sure I am not the only one to be so moved.’

‘You were the only one moved to tears, it would seem.’ He spoke politely, but Lily thought she caught the hint of disapproval in Mr Alden’s tone. He looked to the viscountess. ‘I hope that you warned her, Mother—’

‘Warned me?’ Lily interrupted.

He glanced about as if to be sure no one listened. ‘I understand that you have been little in society, Miss Beecham—’

He got no further before Lily interrupted him. ‘Pray do not concern yourself, Mr Alden.’ She tossed her head. ‘I believe we established your inexperience with women of my stamp during our last conversation.’

His mouth quirked. ‘Your stamp, Miss Beecham?’

She glared at him over her drink. ‘Yes, sir. My stamp. My education has not been limited to embroidering samplers and learning a smattering of French. Besides charitable work, my mother and I have duties to the lands my father left and the families upon it.’

‘Very commendable, I am sure—’ he began.

‘Thank you,’ she interrupted. ‘Though you may smirk, you would be shocked at the lists of tasks that must be seen to on a daily basis, all while attempting to persuade the land steward that there is no shame in consulting a woman on crop rotation and field drainage. In the same vein, I have occasionally had to cajole proud but hungry tenants into taking a loan so that they may feed their families. I’ve been called to coax the sick into taking their medicine, persuade duelling matrons into working together on a charity drive and I have even spoken publicly against the evils of slavery. I think you can trust me to keep my foot out of my mouth at a musical evening.’

Mr Alden did not appear to be impressed. ‘All quite admirable, Miss Beecham, but you’ve never before encountered London society, and that is a different animal altogether.’

‘People are people, Mr Alden.’

‘Unfortunately not. In society you will encounter mind-numbingly bored people—arguably the most dangerous sort. You must understand, they are looking for something, anything, to divert them. I would not wish to see you targeted as a new plaything. Ridiculing a new arrival, painting her as a hopeless rustic, ruining her chances of acceptance—for many this is naught but an amusing pastime.’

Lily stared. Fate, chance and the heavens had finally conspired to set her free—at least for a few fleeting weeks—and he thought to tell her how to go on? It was the last straw. Jack Alden needed to be taught a lesson, and without a doubt Lily had enough of her old spirit left to be the one to give it to him.

She straightened her shoulders. When she had been young and in the grip of this determined mood, her mother had told her that she was worse than a wilful nag. Well, she had the bit in her teeth now. Jack Alden was a fraud. He showed the world a mask, exhibiting nothing but dispassion and uninterest, but worse lay underneath. He was as quick to condemn as the most judgemental of society’s scandalmongers. Well, Lily would give him a taste of his own, and she highly doubted he would enjoy the flavour of either uninterest or censure.

‘Jack, dear,’ the viscountess spoke before Lily could. ‘Do you really think I would allow Lily to do herself harm?’ She cocked her head at her son. ‘And in any case, I do not think you are in a position to speak to anyone about calm and rational conduct, not when you consider your own erratic temper over the last few weeks.’

He had the grace to redden a bit, but he ignored the jab at his own behaviour. ‘Well, there is that old Eastern philosophy—the one in which a person who saves a life becomes responsible for it thereafter.’

‘Let us not forget that you were driving the vehicle that threatened me,’ Lily said. ‘In fact, you saved me from yourself.’ She raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘What does your philosophy say about that?’

‘Oh, dear,’ Lady Dayle intervened. ‘If you two are going to squabble like cats, then I am off to speak with Lord Dearham. He is a great lover of music …’ she cast her son a speaking look ‘… unlike others I could name.’ Patting Lily affectionately, she said, ‘I shall meet you back at our seats when the music begins again, shall I?’

Lily watched her go before turning back to her victim. ‘If you do not enjoy music, Mr Alden, then I confess I am curious to hear why you would attend a musical evening.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘In fact, I do like music. But my mother will not forgive me for eschewing the operas that she so admires. I find that sort of entertainment too … tempestuous.’

‘I see,’ Lily said reflectively. ‘Not having experienced the opera myself, I must reserve judgement. Still, one wonders if something other than the music drew your interest here tonight.’

He stiffened, obviously a little puzzled by her hostility. ‘You are very perceptive, Miss Beecham.’ He glanced after Lady Dayle. ‘I find that I’m quite interested in the Evangelicals. I would like to know more about them.’

Lily lifted her chin. ‘We are not specimens to be examined, Mr Alden.’

‘Nor do I think so,’ he replied easily. ‘My brother mentioned their works and their intriguing notions on how to reform society.’ He shrugged. ‘I am here to learn.’

‘You chose well, then. There are several influential Evangelicals here tonight.’ She nodded across the room. ‘Mr Macaulay, in fact, would be an ideal person for you to speak with. I dare say he can tell you everything you need to know.’ She smiled ingratiatingly. ‘He looks to be free right now.’

‘Yes, he does indeed.’ He smiled and she received the distinct impression that he was trying to win her over. ‘But I came over here seeking a restful companion.’ His gaze wandered briefly over her. As if he had physically touched her, Lily felt her skin twitch and tingle in its wake. She had to fight to keep him from seeing how he affected her. ‘May I say,’ he continued with an incline of his head, ‘that I could not have found a lovelier one.’

‘Thank you.’ She kept her tone absent, as if his compliment had not set off a warm glow in her chest. ‘I should think that this line of inquiry is very different from your usual research. Your mother tells me that you are a notable scholar.’

He nodded.

‘You mentioned the ancients at our late supper a few days ago. Is that your area of specialty?’

‘Yes, ancient civilisations.’

She eyed him shrewdly. ‘I imagine you find it much easier to shut yourself up and study people of long ago than to deal with them in person. Real people can be so … tempestuous.’

That sardonic smile appeared. Lily’s heart jumped at the sight of it. ‘I do get out and amongst people on occasion, Miss Beecham. Thank goodness for it, too; I would not have missed making your acquaintance for the world.’

She ignored the good humour in his voice and let her gaze drop to his injured arm. ‘Yes, but I do hope you did not strain your arm in doing so.’

‘No, it is fine, thank you. I should be able to remove the sling in a week or two.’

‘When your mother told me of your profession, I asked her if you had sustained your injury in a fall from a library stepstool.’

Mr Alden choked on a sip of his wine. Lily saw his jaw tighten and when he spoke, his light tone had been replaced with something altogether darker.

‘No. Actually I was shot—while helping to prevent a group of thieves from making off with some valuable antiquities.’

‘So Lady Dayle tells me! I was quite amazed, and a little thrilled, actually.’ She smiled brightly at his reddening countenance. ‘You give me hope, you see.’

‘Hope?’ he asked, and his voice sounded only slightly strangled.

‘Indeed. For if a quiet scholar like you can find himself embroiled in such an adventure, then perhaps there is hope for a simple girl like me as well.’

It was a struggle, she could tell, but still he retained his expression of bland interest. Curse him.

‘Do you crave adventure, Miss Beecham?’ he asked.

‘Not adventure, precisely.’

‘Travel, perhaps? A flock of admirers?’ He was regaining his equilibrium, fast. ‘Or perhaps you simply wish for dessert?’ He flagged down a passing footman with a tray of pastries.

Lily had to suppress a smile. This oh-so-polite battle of wit and words was by far the most fun she had had in ages. She eyed the footman and decided to take the battle to the next level. She selected a particularly rich-looking fruit-filled tart. ‘Travel,’ she mused. ‘That would be delightful. But since I have it on good authority that I am of no age or situation conducive to easy arrangements, I suppose I must wait until I am older.’ She raised her tart in salute. ‘And stouter.’

Her eyes locked with his while she took a large bite, only to gradually close in ecstasy. She chewed, sighed and savoured. ‘Oh, I must tell your mother to try one—the burnt-orange cream topping is divine!’ Breathing deep, she held her breath for several long seconds before slowly exhaling. She opened languid eyes, taking care to keep them half-hooded as she glanced again at Mr Alden.

And promptly forgot to take a second bite. That had done it. At last she had cracked his polite façade. He stared, the green of his eyes nearly obliterated by pupils dilated with hunger. It wasn’t the tart that he hungered for, either. His gaze was fixed very definitely on the modest neckline of her gown.

‘So if travel must be a delayed gratification …’ he said hoarsely, then paused to clear his throat ‘… what will you substitute, Miss Beecham?’

‘This,’ replied Lily instantly, waving her free hand. ‘Delightful company with warm and open-minded people. The chance to exchange ideas, enjoy music and good conversation.’

‘I hear that Mrs Montague has opened her gallery to her visitors tonight,’ he returned. ‘She has several noteworthy pieces. Perhaps you will enjoy some good conversation with me while we explore it?’

Lily smiled at him. She popped the last bit of tart into her mouth and dusted the crumbs from her gloves. ‘Thank you, Mr Alden …’ she shook her head as he offered her his arm ‘… but I must decline. I see an acquaintance from the Foreign Bible Society and I simply must go and congratulate her on her gown.’ She dipped a curtsy and, fighting to keep a triumphant smile from her face, turned and set off.

Flummoxed, Jack watched Lily Beecham walk away. This was not at all going the way he had planned. He’d mapped his strategy so carefully, too, and the troublesome chit had derailed him completely.

Aberrant—that’s what she was. If it wasn’t against all the laws of nature for one female to inspire so many conflicting reactions in a man, then it should be. She acted in a manner completely unpredictable. Her sharp wit and quirky humour kept him perpetually unbalanced—just as he desperately sought an even keel.

His nightmares had grown worse over the last few days. He couldn’t sleep and had no wish to eat. Worse—he couldn’t concentrate on his work. The ability to form a coherent written thought appeared to have deserted him.

Things had grown so bad that scenes from his youth—memories of his father’s disdain for his third son—had begun to haunt him even while he was awake. But Jack had not allowed his father’s casual cruelty to touch him while he’d been alive, and he would be damned before he let the old codger torment him from the grave.

He’d focused all of his energies instead on the thought of capturing Batiste. One advantage Lord Dayle’s ‘damned bookish’ son possessed was a wide correspondence. Jack had contacts all over the world and, though it had been a painfully slow process, he had been for several weeks laboriously writing and put them all on notice. If Batiste put in to port near any of them, Jack would hear of it.

His next step was to track down Matthew Beecham. The shipbuilder had had extensive dealings with Batiste, and he might just be able to lead him straight to him. But first Jack had to get through Lily Beecham.

He circulated amongst Mrs Montague’s guests and tried not to be obvious in his observation of the girl. He’d taken note of her altered appearance straight away. She had a number of new freckles sprinkled across her nose, if he was not mistaken, and her red-gold mane had been tamed into a sleek and shining coiffure.

He thought he detected his mother’s hand in the new style of gown she wore. She still dressed conservatively, but the gown of deep blue poplin represented a vast difference from the shapeless sack she’d worn when they met. The white collar, though high, served to draw the eye unerringly to her substantially fine bosom, and the soft and sturdy fabric snuggled tight both there and down the long, shapely length of her arms.

She looked quiet, constrained, the veritable picture of restraint—until she spoke. Then a man found himself either cut by the razor edge of her tongue or riveted by her marvellously expressive face. Nor was he the only one affected. She made the rounds of the room, talking easily with everyone she encountered, and laughing with uninhibited abandon. Clearly she had a gift. Every person she spoke with ended up smiling right along with her. The ladies gazed fondly after her and the gentlemen stared, agape and entranced.

Jack hovered across the room, in complete sympathy with the lot of them. Like a naturalist who had discovered a new species, he could not look away. The girl appeared perfectly comfortable conversing with strangers and seemed to be on the best of terms with Minerva Dawson, too. He’d heard some nonsense about those two being distantly related. They flitted about the room like a couple of smiling butterflies, one darkly handsome, the other shining like a crimson flame. Jack saw Miss Dawson’s mother gazing fondly on the pair, but her companion—her sister, he thought—observed them with a frown. Well. Perhaps not everyone in the family was enamoured of their new connection.

Jack, watching closely as well, failed to see why. To his relief and chagrin, Miss Beecham never made a mis-step—until an elderly couple, arriving late, paused on the threshold of the room.

Obviously, she knew them. Mrs Montague had begun to herd her guests back to their seats in preparation for the music to begin again, but Miss Beecham struggled against the flow of people to fight her way to the newcomers. Her eyes shone and her sparkling smile grew wider still as she embraced them both with enthusiasm.

It looked to be a happy reunion. Jack watched surreptitiously as they talked. A few of the other guests had glanced over at the chattering threesome, but he thought he was the only one still paying attention when the older lady sobered, laid a gentle hand on Lily’s arm and said something in a soft voice.

Jack stood too far away to hear the words she spoke, but he could see that they were not welcome to Miss Beecham. She paled, instantly and noticeably. All of the joy faded from her face and her hand trembled as she grasped the other woman’s.

Mrs Montague chose that moment to notice her new arrivals. The little tableau broke apart as she greeted the couple heartily and began to pull them forwards towards the seating. Miss Beecham did not follow. Blank disbelief coloured her expression as she stared after the couple. She flashed a glance his way and Jack averted his eyes, pretending to be scanning for a seat. He looked back just in time to see her slipping away into the hall.

Jack’s heart began to pound. She was clearly distressed and probably sought a quiet moment to herself, but this was it—his chance to get her alone and talking about her family. He had to take it. He edged towards the door and followed.

The tinkling and tootling of tuning instruments followed him into the hall. The few people left out there began to move past him, into the music room. Jack could see no sign of the girl. He glanced up the stairs. Several women still moved up and down, seeking or leaving the ladies’ retiring room. No, not there. Instinct pointed him instead down the dimly lit hallway leading towards the back of the house.

He found her in the bookroom. Only a small pair of lamps fought the dark shadows here. Her head bowed, she stood, poised in graceful profile at the window. One hand stretched, holding the heavy curtain aside, but she did not look out. Jack’s breathing quickened. Flickering light, reflected from the torches set up outside, danced like living flames in her hair. He stopped just inside the door. ‘Miss Beecham? Are you all right?’

For a long, silent moment, she did not respond. Then she simply drew a breath and looked back at him, over her shoulder.

Jack, about to step closer, froze. There it was again, in her eyes. Pain, sorrow, loss. It had been the first expression he had seen on her face and it had struck him hard then. Now, when he could so closely contrast it with the joy and animation that had shone from her all evening, it hit him a staggering blow.

‘Good God,’ he said involuntarily. ‘What’s happened?’

She dropped the curtain. ‘I … that is … Nothing, thank you. I am fine.’

The urge to know, the compulsion to help her, fluttered in his breast. He realised that it happened every time he was with her. She forged in him a disturbing and unfamiliar yearning for a connection. He had to ignore it, to find a way to remember his purpose. To regain control.

‘Come, Miss Beecham, I’m not a fool. I can see that something has upset you.’

A china shepherdess graced the table next to the window. She avoided his gaze and touched the delicate thing with the lightest touch of her fingertips. Jack watched them glide over the smooth surface and swallowed.

‘It’s just … some disturbing news from a friend, I’m afraid,’ she said, still not looking at him.

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

Now she looked up. She set the figurine aside. Her chin rose and the icy coldness of her glare held him fast. ‘I should think you’d be happy to find that I am following your advice.’

‘Advice?’ Once again she had him at a loss. Ancient Sumerian was easier to translate than this girl’s fits and starts.

‘Yes. You see—here I am, hiding away, keeping my unsuitable emotions private.’

Stunned, Jack stared at her. Was this the reason for her hostility? Had he hurt her? He considered stepping closer, taking her hand, but he felt inept, clumsy. ‘I do apologise. If you thought I meant to criticise … I hope you will understand, I only meant to help you.’

She crossed her arms defensively in front of her. ‘Help me what?’

He took a moment to answer. ‘Protect yourself, I suppose.’

Her arms dropped. Her eyes grew huge and some emotion that looked dangerously like pity crossed her face. ‘Protect myself from what, Mr Alden?’ She gestured towards the door. ‘In there is a roomful of people come to pass a pleasant evening and enjoy some good music. It is not a den of monsters.’

She was so young. So naïve. Jack wanted to wrap her in swaddling and spirit her away, to somehow keep her safe in this pristine, happy state.

He took a step back. He was doing it again. She was doing it again. This was not why he had come here. He sketched a quick bow. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to insult you.’

She inclined her head a little. He took what he could get and forged ahead. ‘Your mother, she is well? I hope that was not the nature of your news?’

‘Oh. No. Mother is fine. I had a letter from her yesterday. She and Lady Ashford appear to be enjoying themselves. They have met many new people and even approve of a few of them.’

‘And the rest of your family?’ he persisted. ‘I hope they are well, also?’

‘Thank you, but I have no other family. Mother and I have been alone since my father died.’

Jack’s fist clenched. His breath caught. It could not be. Please. He did not want to have been wrong about her connection to Matthew Beecham. ‘Just the two of you alone in the world?’ he asked past the constriction in his throat. ‘That is sad enough, in and of itself.’

‘Just the two of us,’ she said. ‘Unless you count my cousin Matthew—but he lives in America now.’

Jack almost slumped in relief. Almost. He grinned at her. ‘An American cousin? My brother’s wife boasts such a connection. I hope yours is not so, ah, vibrant a character as hers.’

He’d actually drawn an answering smile. ‘Oh, Matthew is a character, without a doubt.’ She laughed. ‘You would never believe me if I shared half the antics we used to get up to.’

‘Are you close, then?’ He held his breath.

She sighed. ‘We were. Matthew lived with us for several years after his parents died. I was just a girl and I thought the sun rose and set with him.’

‘I hope he returned the sentiment.’

‘He did, or close enough to please me.’ She smiled. ‘He taught me the most unsuitable things! And I loved him for it.’

‘Hmm, now he sounds like my brother Charles.’

‘Oh, I’ve already heard a few of the tales about Charles.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t think we could have kept up with him, even on our best days.’

‘Nor could I.’

She glanced sharply at him and Jack wondered if he’d revealed too much.

‘Matthew was special to me. Other than my father, I would say that he may be the only person in the world who has ever truly known me.’

Jack fought a twinge of conscience. He was too close to back down now. ‘Was special? Do you not keep in touch any longer?’

‘We exchange the occasional letter.’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘I confess, although I have altogether less to write about, I am far more likely to write him than vice versa. And though his correspondence has always been irregular and infrequent, it is always a delight when it comes.’ She grinned again. ‘American life has some rather droll differences from ours, based on his descriptions.’ Jack watched, hopeful and more than a little enchanted, as a tiny frown of concentration creased her brow. ‘But it has been months and months since last I heard from him. I don’t think I realised until now just how long it has been.’

‘And how does he find America, besides droll? Does he not miss his home?’

‘Not at all, as far as I can tell. He’s quite happy there. He’s a shipbuilder and doing tolerably well.’ She cocked her head. ‘Perhaps his business has increased and that is what keeps him from writing.’

Disappointment and hope warred in Jack’s chest. For a moment he considered telling her the truth, but cast the thought quickly aside. She obviously knew nothing of the trouble her cousin had tangled himself in. Matthew Beecham might just contact his cousin and ask for help. It would behoove Jack to stay close as well.

It was a sobering thought. She was damned perplexing. He didn’t know if he could win her confidence, and, more importantly, he didn’t know if he could keep a rein on his own unfortunate reactions to her.

He’d been quiet too long. She watched him, curiosity etched in her clear, fresh face. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘thank you for distracting me from my sombre thoughts. I had best return to the music room.’ She glanced at him again and made to move away.

‘Wait,’ he asked. His conscience still pricked him. He could not forget the earlier hurt in her voice.

She paused.

‘About what I said earlier,’ he began, stumbling a little over the words. ‘I have no authority to dictate to you, or even advise you. Truly, I meant my words, as I said, as a warning. A friendly warning.’ She’d stopped on her way out and stood very close now. The darkened room contracted around them. ‘Perhaps you do not know, but my own family has shown a disregard for society’s expectations in the past—and been persecuted for it. I just wish to spare you that sort of pain.’

Her face softened. Jack’s gaze locked with hers. Her colour heightened and he noticed that those adorable freckles disappeared when she flushed. ‘I begin to understand,’ she said softly. Jack had the impression that she spoke as much to herself as to him. ‘Perhaps you will scoff—’ she spoke in nearly a whisper ‘—but we are very alike.’

A frown furrowed her lovely brow, and she caught that enticingly plump bottom lip with her teeth. Jack could not look away. Somehow the chit had turned the tables and was now worried for him. It was an intoxicating thought. Yet he was here with a purpose. He drew a deep breath and tried to clear his mind of anything else.

Her hand rose between them. Jack’s pulse began to race. Small and uncertain, that hovering hand drove all thought of his objective from his head. For a moment, he felt sure she meant to draw it back. His gut twisted inside out as part of him longed to jerk away—and the other waited in breathless anticipation for her to touch him.

She did touch him. He saw the resolution in her eyes as she extended her arm and then he felt the butterfly touch of her fingers tracing a path along his jaw. His eyes closed. Her warm little hand slid over his shoulder and came to rest on his chest.

‘When my father died, I thought just as you do,’ she whispered. ‘It is a very hard thing, to feel alone in a room full of people.’

But Jack’s eyes were open again, and her words did not register. He could not think past the mix of empathy and desire swimming in the cool blue of her gaze, could not focus on anything but the movement of that tempting lower lip. Logic, his close companion all these years, screamed at him to stop, shouted a warning that, for the first time ever, he ignored. Her mouth beckoned. He had to taste it, mark it as his.

His gaze fixed, he mimicked her earlier movement, raising his hand and brushing the silky skin of her jaw. She gasped. He did not let it deter him. He ran his fingers into the smooth knot of hair at her nape and cupped her jaw. He leaned in, intent on his purpose—

‘Miss Beecham?’

She jerked back, her eyes wide. Jack blinked. Then he cursed. Ever so slowly, awareness began to return. She stepped quickly towards the door, but the alarm in his head did not fade.

‘Miss Beecham, there you are!’

It was one of the young pups who had drooled over her in the music room. He gave an extravagant bow and offered her his arm and a friendly grin. ‘Miss Beecham, I’ve been sent to fetch you. Our hostess hopes you will entertain us all with a song on the pianoforte.’

She glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. The boy’s gaze followed. His engaging smile faded.

Jack managed a grim nod. ‘There, Miss Beecham,’ he said, keeping his tone brisk. ‘Perhaps this young man will take you back to my mother while I find the footman seeking me? Thank you for informing me of the message awaiting me.’

The boy’s grin returned at the welcome request. ‘I would be happy to escort you, Miss Beecham. Mr Bartleigh is but newly arrived, but he tells us you have more than a passing knowledge of many of the older broadsheet ballads. He’s hoping you’ll share your rendition of “Ballynamony”.’

She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should not.’ She glanced at Jack again, and this time there was a challenge glittering in her eyes. ‘So many of the ballads are sentimental. I should not wish to expose myself to ridicule.’

‘Never say such a thing! A lovely young lady such as yourself, in genial company such as this? Impossible,’ he scoffed. ‘And should anyone dare to suggest otherwise, I will deal with them myself.’

Jack’s jaw clenched. Miss Beecham smiled up at her young admirer.

He had to escape. Logic whispered fervently in his ear again and this time he paid heed. Logic stood correct and unassailable as always. He should feel grateful for the boy’s interruption, not ready and willing to strangle both him and the baiting chit.

‘Miss Beecham—’ he could not look directly at her ‘—thank you for your kindness in coming for me. Please convey my farewells to my mother?’

‘Of course. Goodnight, Mr Alden.’

He ignored the thread of steel in her voice and brushed past them into the hall. He did indeed go searching for a footman and sent the man off after his coat and hat.

He should be thrilled. He’d accomplished the first step and verified Miss Beecham’s connection to his target. Now he only had to wait for him to communicate with her, or he might even prod her into discovering her cousin’s whereabouts. She might even know more, such as where the shipbuilder might have gone when he disappeared.

He was not thrilled. The vague restlessness that had been plaguing him roiled in his gut, transformed into something altogether uglier. He’d had a narrow escape tonight, on several levels. This could not continue. He must control himself around the girl, no matter what tender emotions lived in her blue eyes and in spite of that damned tempting mouth of hers.

Control. Restraint. They were his allies, his support, as necessary to his existence as air. He breathed deep. He could do this. Hell, he’d already spent a lifetime doing this.

The footman brought his things. As he shrugged into his coat, the first few strains of a sprightly song began in the music room. Miss Beecham’s bright, lilting voice wafted out and over him.

Wherever I’m going, and all the day long,

At home and abroad, or alone in a Throng,

I find that my Passion’s so lively and strong,

That your Name when I’m silent still runs in my Song.

Jack placed his hat firmly on his head and walked out.

Chapter Five

Lady Dayle’s morning room shone bright and airy, as warm and welcoming as the viscountess herself. Unfortunately, Lily’s mood did not reflect the serenity of her surroundings. She sat at the dainty writing desk, trying to compose a letter to her land steward.

Last night’s conversation had triggered the idea. She’d spoken of her cousin Matthew to Mr Alden and she’d woken this morning with a sudden longing for one of his breezy, affectionate letters. She’d realised that it had been quite some time since she’d last heard from him and resolved to ask Mr Albright to forward any personal mail on to London. Perhaps a lighthearted, teasing missive from America awaited her even now.

She hoped it was so. She could use a bolster to her confidence. She’d thought she’d come to London to find culture and learning and to broaden her experience. She’d begun to realise, however, that what she was truly looking for was acceptance, the casual sort of recognition and approval that most people experienced on a daily basis. She had found it, too, and from some truly amazing and worthy people.

But she had not found it in Jack Alden. She had seen flashes of approval from him, to be sure, and flares of something altogether darker, more dangerous and intriguing. But there had also been wariness and reserve and something that might be suspicion. And it was driving her mad.

The why of it eluded her. Perhaps because she had spoken truly last night—they were alike in some deeply elemental way. They both stood slightly apart from the rest of the world. The difference between them was that he seemed perfectly content with his situation. But her reaction made not a whit of sense. She both wished to achieve such serenity and, for some reason, wished whole-heartedly to shake him from his.

She sighed. She very much feared that it was for an altogether more common reason that she found herself fixating on him. He had been on the verge of kissing her last night. She’d guessed his intent and her heart had soared, her pulse had ratcheted and she had waited, breathless, for the touch of his mouth on hers. When they had been interrupted she had been frightened, and wildly disappointed.

Later, though, in the privacy of her own room, she had been appalled at her own behaviour and angry at his. Was he so far removed from the world that kissing a young woman in a public venue meant nothing? But, no, then she had remembered how brilliantly—and smoothly—he had covered their almost-transgression. And when she thought further on it, she realised that in actuality she had goaded him into it. He wore his cynicism and reserve like a protective shell and she had not been able to curb her desire to pierce it. She knew she should have shown more restraint, but she’d been left vulnerable by Mrs Bartleigh’s news. When he’d shown a bit of his own vulnerability she had overreacted. She’d taken the conversation to too intimate a level, pushed too far, got too close.

And he’d pushed back, struck out with his heated gaze and warm, wandering hands. Even now she couldn’t help wishing she had discovered a few more of the weapons in his sensual arsenal.

‘Good morning, cousin!’ a voice rang out.

Lily started nearly out of her chair, an instant flush rising. She turned to find Miss Dawson advancing across the room towards her.

‘Oh, goodness! Good morning, Minerva.’ She took up her still-blank sheet of paper and began to fan herself with it. ‘You look lovely today!’

Minerva Dawson laughed, her eyebrow cocked as she clasped Lily’s hand in her own. ‘As do you, my dear. Something has put a beautiful hue to your cheeks. Do tell!’

‘Oh, no, I am merely writing a note for my land steward.’

‘So I see,’ her friend said, glancing at the empty sheets in her hand and in front of her. ‘Well, are you ready to shop? Mother gave me firm instructions. I am to find the perfect pair of gloves to wear to my engagement ball—elbow length and ivory. Not white, not ecru, but ivory.’

‘I shall be ready to go in just a moment—if you would wait while I finish?’

Minerva rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, if I must.’

Lily laughed. ‘You know, Minerva, that I am thrilled that you found a familial connection between us, even if it is a distant relationship through marriage and largely born of your imagination—’ she grinned to take the sting from her words ‘—but I do not think everyone in your family is as well pleased with such a link.’ She gestured for her friend to sit and joined her in the comfortable grouping of chairs near the window. ‘In fact, I think your aunt disapproves of me.’

‘Oh, yes, she does,’ Minerva returned cheerily. ‘But Aunt Lucinda disapproves of nearly everyone without a title—including her husband.’

‘Well, that does make me feel a little more sympathetic towards your uncle.’

‘Don’t let it,’ her friend said flatly. She began to remove her gloves in a brisk manner. Leaning towards Lily, she lowered her voice. ‘The man gives me chills. I don’t care if he is my uncle.’

‘I know just what you mean.’ Lily shuddered.

‘Well, you don’t have to worry about them. I told dear Aunt Lucinda all about your vast lands in Dorset and the vaster amount of money you stand to inherit and that went a long way towards reconciling her to our friendship.’

‘You are incorrigible.’ Lily laughed.

‘It is true.’ Minerva sighed. ‘But a little incorrigibility makes life ever so much more fun!’ She waggled a stern finger in Lily’s direction. ‘And happily, there’s a bit of it in you, too. Now don’t try to bam me—you were mooning over some young man when I came in. Which one? That Mr Brookins, who waxed eloquent over your skills on the pianoforte?’

‘No.’ Lily abruptly decided to tell the truth. ‘Actually, I was trying to decipher Mr Alden’s puzzling behaviour.’

Minerva stilled. Much of the light faded from her smiling face. ‘Oh? Do your thoughts lean in that direction, then?’

‘No,’ Lily said with a grimace. ‘In fact, they travel in another direction entirely. I’m afraid Mr Alden does not like me much, and I was merely trying to work out why that is.’

‘Hmm.’ Her ‘cousin’ examined her closely. ‘Lily, I am a very observant person, have I told you that?’

‘Not that I’ve observed.’ Lily smiled to defuse the serious tone Minerva had adopted.

‘Ha. Well, I observed something interesting last night.’

‘A sudden gust of wind?’ asked Lily facetiously.

‘No.’ Her friend’s brow furrowed. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Nothing. Is this a game? Let me guess again. You observed … the immense number of prawns devoured by the bishop during the intermission?’

‘Well, I did notice that. Shocking, wasn’t it? I’d wager that he’s not feeling quite the thing today.’ The stern finger appeared again. ‘But that was not what I meant. I observed Mr Alden and he was watching you very closely last night.’

‘Probably because we quarrelled and I got the best of him,’ Lily said sourly.

Minerva drew back, surprised. ‘You bested him in an argument? Well, I dare say that was a first for him. No wonder he looked so torn.’

‘Torn?’

‘Definitely torn. I swear, he alternately looked as he meant to devour you, or perhaps to bash you over the head.’

‘No doubt he would prefer the latter.’ She sighed, then got to her feet and wandered over to gaze out of the window.

Minerva pursed her lips. She sat back, levelling a stare in Lily’s direction and drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. ‘Lily,’ she began at last, ‘you know that I only want what is best for you.’

Lily had to suppress an ironic chuckle. Minerva could have no notion how many times she’d heard that particular phrase in her life.

‘Jack Alden is a very handsome man, in an intense and yet disarmingly rumpled way.’

‘I know,’ agreed Lily. ‘Don’t you have to stop yourself from straightening his cravat and smoothing out the line of his coat every time you meet him?’

Her friend stared at her. ‘Well, no. But it is rather speaking that you do, my dear.’ A gentle smile belied the slight crease in her brow. ‘Just be careful,’ she pleaded, her tone low and serious. ‘Some men are amenable to having their neckcloths straightened and some are in no way ready to contemplate such a thing.’

‘I understand what you are saying, Minerva, and I appreciate your concern beyond words.’ Lily focused on the traffic outside in the street for a long moment. ‘He’s hiding,’ she said abruptly.

Minerva heaved a great sigh. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘You do?’ She spun around in surprise.

The corner of her friend’s mouth twitched. ‘I recognised the symptoms from personal experience.’ She raised a questioning brow. ‘As do you, I assume.’

Lily nodded.

‘Well, then we both know that you cannot force him to stop. He will battle his own demons in his own time—just as everyone else must, sooner or later.’

Lily met her friend’s gaze squarely. ‘Would you consider me insane if I told you that I have been wondering … if perhaps I am meant to help Mr Alden?’

‘No,’ Minerva replied promptly. ‘I would consider you the most generous girl with the grandest heart in all of England. But I would also warn you that Jack Alden is a man grown. He can help himself. You can go on enjoying your all-too-brief stay in London—as you were meant to do.’

Lily regarded her with affection. ‘You are a very dear friend.’

‘I know,’ Minerva responded comfortably, ‘but you deserve me.’

For several long moments Lily sat, silent. Her thoughts swirled while her conscience struggled to find a balance between her wants and her needs. At last she sighed. She knew what she wanted, but she also knew what she must do.

‘Minerva,’ she said slowly, ‘we will likely be seeing much of Mr Alden over the next weeks.’ She grimaced. ‘Tomorrow, for instance, Lady Dayle and I are to accompany him on a day trip to a friend’s country villa.’ She gestured helplessly about them, at his family’s house which sheltered them. ‘But I think it is best that I keep my distance—for all of our sakes.’ Lily reached for her friend’s hand and clasped it tightly when it came. ‘Will you help me?’

‘Yes,’ Minerva responded slowly. ‘I rather think I will.’

Whistling, Jack swept a brush down the muscled flank of one of his sturdy greys. ‘Now this is a job for a one-handed man,’ he said aloud. The doctor had agreed to let him leave off with the splint, but his arm still felt a long way from fully recovered. ‘Let’s finish it up, boys!’ he called to the men polishing his brother’s landau. ‘Our ladies will be ready shortly. Let’s be sure to give them a beautiful ride!’

He could see the vehicle, shining already in the early morning sun, and the grooms scrambling over the cobbled yard of the mews. His brother’s voice rang out just then and Jack turned as Charles entered the stable.

Charles called for his mount and joined his brother, running a critical eye over the horse he laboured over. ‘Morning, Jack. Your greys look to be in fine fettle today.’

‘Perhaps not so flashy as Pettigrew’s bays,’ Jack answered, grinning, ‘but they suit me well. Thank you again,’ he added, ‘for the loan of your landau. It looks to be a good day for our drive. I’m sure Mother and Miss Beecham will prefer the open air to a carriage and none of us would be comfortable squeezing into my cabriolet.’

‘Remind me again where you are all off to?’

‘Chester House. Lord Bradington has invited a select group to view his Anglo-Saxon collection and he’s invited some scholars interested in the period to speak. I’m to read my paper on King Alfred’s system of justice.’ He shrugged. ‘I had originally declined, but the day is fine and I thought the ladies might enjoy it. Miss Beecham seems to go in for that sort of thing.’

Jack grinned as his brother gave him the same sort of once over he’d just given his horse.

‘You do seem to be in remarkably good spirits,’ said Charles. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you looking so relaxed in weeks.’

‘Remarkable what a good night’s sleep will do for a man,’ said Jack, continuing on with his brushing. He was in good spirits. In fact, he was vastly relieved and gloriously happy. ‘It’s all due to a grand bit of news, Charles. Do you recall Benjamin Racci, the fellow who had the apartments next to me at All Souls?’

He watched Charles grimace and search his memory. ‘Vaguely. His area of interest had something to do with Muslims, yes?’

‘Oh, you are good,’ Jack said admiringly. ‘No wonder you do so well in the Lords. Yes, in any case, Racci’s obsession is Muslim influence on Western development. He’s currently in Gibraltar, going over Moorish structures and mosques.’ He paused, leaned on the back of his grey and smirked at his brother. ‘And guess what he caught sight of in Catelan Bay?’

Charles’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Jack a moment, then realisation dawned. ‘Not Batiste?’

‘Batiste, big brother!’ Jack crowed. ‘Racci got my letter, asking that he keep an eye and ear out, and then, wham! One morning he spots the Lady Vengeance riding at anchor in the bay. Racci sent a message off to the British Naval Commander, but she was gone before they got there.’

‘So he’s not been caught?’ asked Charles.

‘No, but neither did he re-supply. He’s on the run, Charles, and for the first time I feel as if we truly might catch up with the bastard.’

His brother grinned. ‘So that’s why you are in such a good mood. Triumph of logic and reason over tyranny and villainy?’

‘Perhaps not triumph, yet, but definitely a step in the right direction. And it was due to sound thinking and determination,’ Jack corrected. ‘As well as good contacts, of course.’

‘Nice job, little brother.’ Charles stepped back as his groom led his mount forwards. Another man came to take the grey and Jack savoured the feeling of his brother’s approbation as he handed him over to be harnessed with his mate.

‘I’m surprised you are bothering with poor Miss Beecham now that you’ve got Batiste on the run,’ Charles teased as he swung up. ‘Why bother taking her and Mother out if you no longer need to pursue her connection with Matthew Beecham?’

A small, cowardly piece of his soul had already whispered the same message in Jack’s ear. He rebuffed his brother in the same way he had sternly talked to himself.

‘The girl is Mother’s guest, Charles, not a pawn in some game I’m playing,’ Jack said reproachfully. He waved the groom away and checked his brother’s girth strap himself.

‘I know, I know, it was just a brotherly jibe.’ Charles did not sound in the least repentant. ‘I can’t help thinking of what happened to me, though, last time Mother adopted a protégée.’

Jack froze. ‘The situations are not at all similar.’

Charles laughed. ‘I know. Just watch yourself.’

‘Don’t even joke about such things,’ Jack said with shudder. ‘What a wretched husband I should make, holed up in my rooms, losing myself for days on end in my papers and books.’ He eyed Charles soberly. ‘And we both know what a wretched husband does to a family. I have no plans to inflict such a fate on anyone.’

‘You never know, Jack. Some day you might just meet a young lady who interests you more than your stale ancients.’

‘Miss Beecham does interest me. She’s a lovely girl, but I have no intention of making her miserable for the rest of her life. I give her the respect she is due as a friend of the family, but I’m not about to give up any other possible leads to Batiste.’

‘Do you think the girl will co-operate, then?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I won’t know until I ask.’

‘Best of luck to you.’ Charles nudged his mount forwards. ‘The vote on this bill comes soon, and then I’ll be back to Sevenoaks for a few days.’

‘I’m sure I’ll see you before then.’ Jack waved his brother off.

The landau stood ready, polished surfaces gleaming, the horses prancing in anticipation. Dissatisfied, Jack climbed in. He much preferred to do his own driving. But he gave a nod of readiness to the groom and the team went wheeling after his brother. As the man eased them into the flow of traffic in the street, Jack steeled his nerves against the coming confrontation.

Despite his fine words to Charles, he knew his last encounter with Miss Beecham had been a disaster, start to finish. His shoulders hunched involuntarily. Especially the finish. He’d been sick at the thought of what he’d almost done and horrified at his own complete loss of control.

So close. His hand had buried itself in the glowing softness of her hair. Her breath had mingled, hot and sweet, with his. He’d stood mere seconds away from locking her within his embrace and ending her disturbingly empathetic conversation with a searing kiss.

After his escape he had waged a silent war with himself, wavering between his wish to stay as far away as possible from the dangerous chit and his need to ask for her co-operation in finding her cousin. She had every right to refuse him—to slap his face and order him to keep his distance. But he hoped fervently that she would not.

He felt better, more like himself, now. His success in finding a first trace of Batiste’s whereabouts had taken the edge off of his desperation. He’d slept at last without being haunted by taunting visions of the captain and his father. He’d clamped down hard on his wayward emotions and taken a step back towards the equilibrium he craved.

This exhibition should be the perfect venue to help him get back in Miss Beecham’s good graces. A gorgeous house, intellectual stimulation, fascinating antiquities, beautiful gardens—what more could he ask for? He could deal with her in his own milieu, impress her, charm her and get her alone where he could offer up his proposition and in no way act again like a weak-willed fool.

She was just a woman. One endowed with wit and beauty and a good deal of spirit, to be sure, but no longer a match for his discipline and determination. He could do this. If only she gave him the chance.

Traffic quieted as they made the turn on to Bruton Street. Jack stared as the landau slowed, approaching his brother’s house. What was this? At first he tried mightily to hide his dismay. Then he gave up, gave in and simply laughed out loud. He had not granted the wily Miss Beecham enough credit. Give him the chance? Clearly she meant to leave nothing to chance.

Instead of a pair of ladies waiting patiently inside, a large group of people milled on the steps and on the pavement in front of the town house. Several vehicles waited empty in the street. He spotted Minerva Dawson and her betrothed, Lord Lindley. There stood Mrs Montague and—Lord, was that Sally Jersey? In the midst of them stood Miss Beecham. He caught sight of her as she gave a little jump and a wave.

‘Good morning, Mr Alden!’ she called. ‘I hope you won’t mind a few additions to your party!’

Chapter Six

Lily had succeeded in her ploy. She’d been unable to deny the twinge of satisfaction she’d felt when she’d glimpsed the surprise on Jack Alden’s face this morning, but, she had to admit, he’d succeeded in surprising her, too.

A country villa? She turned round and round inside the incredible central hall of Chester House. Awestruck, she let her eye rove from the stone floor, over the magnificent plaster ornamentation and on to the high windows and the lofty dome overheard. Her jaw had dropped when they had pulled up to this gleaming neo-Palladian villa, but with her first step inside she’d fallen instantly in love.

Oh, how her mother would despise the place. A wealthy gentleman’s playhouse. A hedonist’s dream, replete with everything fanciful, ornate and overblown.

But so much more, as well. Like a light and airy treasure box, it showcased art and antiquities flanked by and contained within the most exquisite architecture. It stood testimony to man’s capability for beauty, celebrated his sense of ingenuity and wonder. It spoke directly to Lily’s soul.

Guests, laughing and boisterous, began to spill in behind her. Lily was swept along to an elaborate, tripartite gallery where, en masse, they were met by their host. In the midst of all the splendour, Lord Bradington looked short and somewhat ordinary, yet he stepped up to a lavishly inlaid marble podium and welcomed them with generous and open arms.

‘The best way to properly see the collection is in small groups,’ he announced. ‘We will split up. Besides myself, we are fortunate to have several experts among us. They will be happy, I am sure, to share their knowledge and thus enhance your own enjoyment of the treasures on display. There will be plenty of time to see everything before we gather back here …’ he gestured ‘… in the gallery, to hear our notable speakers and enjoy a light repast.’

Good-natured chaos ensued as people began to separate into groups. Lily took advantage of the confusion. She slipped behind a gilded pillar, anxious for a quiet moment to recover and take it all in.

This was it—what she had been anticipating, hoping for, when she came to London. Not the riches that surrounded her, but the happy exuberance and simple joy to be found in sharing them, their history and the grand idea that they somehow connected every single person here.

Heart pounding, she leaned against the cool marble and peeked out into the crowd. Her eye unerringly went to Jack Alden, as it had done foolishly, repeatedly, all morning.

Why now? she wanted to cry at him. Why now, when she had reached her decision to stay away, made her resolution to avoid him, did he abruptly turn himself into the exact thing she hadn’t acknowledged that she was looking for?

He’d had every right to be angry at her perfidy in inviting along Minerva and her fiancé, the Bartleighs, and a few others besides, to his outing. But he’d acted quite the opposite. He had taken off his hat, thrown back his head and laughed heartily at the sight of her entourage and she had been captivated by the sight of the breeze wafting through his dark hair and the green sparkle of amusement in his eyes. Even as she’d stared, he’d replaced his hat, and given her a jaunty salute, making her wonder if he’d guessed at the reason behind her strategy.

Nor had he objected when she had climbed up with Minerva to ride in Mr Brookin’s flashy demi-landau. Instead, he had welcomed the Bartleighs into his own vehicle and, from what she could see, had spent the drive out chatting and charming them completely.

Now he gathered her friends into a group and then he raised his head and ran a searching gaze about the room.

‘Lily Beecham?’ he called. ‘Miss Beecham must join us as well.’

The others echoed his cry. Lily breathed deep. There was no help for it. All she could do was join the group and avoid Jack Alden as best she could.

This, it turned out, was no easy task. In fact, she thought at one point that it just might be the hardest thing she had ever tried to do.

Gone was Jack Alden’s veneer of cool reserve. Not once did she catch even a hint of worldly cynicism. Instead, he led their group on a private, informative, highly entertaining tour. The Anglo-Saxon antiquities on display throughout the house were fascinating and it seemed he knew something about every piece. He explained the incised decorations on a disc brooch, and pointed out the faint remains of tinning on a Saxon wrist clasp. He spoke at length and with enthusiasm about the theories regarding the Alfred jewel and the possibility that more might exist. He showed himself to be knowledgeable and passionate.

And nigh irresistible.

Lily was unceasingly aware of him all day. She felt attuned to his every clever remark and deep, husky laugh. She grew warmer every time she noticed that his relaxed manner only emphasised the strength of his form and his long-limbed grace. All day she watched him and her body hummed, head to toe, with a heated, shivering awareness.

And yet she forced herself to behave with complete indifference. She did not meet his eye, kept at least two others between them at all times, permitted herself only a distant smile so many times when what she really wished was to laugh out loud.

It was torture.

By the time the papers were read, the speeches given and the lavish spread of food consumed, Lily’s head was aching. She was tired of fighting to keep her gaze from straying to wherever Jack Alden stood. When Mr Keller, another of the scholars invited to speak today, asked her to stroll with him through the famous gardens, she allowed herself one last fleeting glimpse, and then she took the other man’s arm and allowed him to lead her away.

Jack Alden stood poised on the brink of madness. Ahead loomed naught but the chaotic pit and behind him lurked Lily Beecham, one tiny hand placed squarely at his back, urging him forwards to his doom.

He could not believe that it had happened again. He’d come with a plan and a purpose. He’d visualised how he would proceed. He’d anticipated and prepared for her every response. Except, it appeared, for this one.

She blended right in to the atmosphere of Chester House, as if she was meant to stroll amongst the beauties of the ages and enrich them with her own special appeal. He’d half-expected that. He’d expected her to be lively and vivacious. He’d hoped she’d be caught up in his own attempt at charm and charisma.

He’d been at least partly right. Good God—her allure was a nearly palpable thing. She had every man here in her thrall. But something had gone missing. She seemed interested, happy—and utterly indifferent to him.

Jack knew that he did not possess the renowned charm of his brother, but he exerted himself powerfully and did his best to channel Charles’s effortless likeability—to no avail.

And just like that, all of his careful planning, and reason and logic, too, flew right out of the proverbial window. He could swear he heard his father’s mocking laughter mixed in with the gaiety of the company. Her complete lack of interest triggered something alarming inside of him. He felt hot and reckless, and uncertain as well, as if he would do anything to get her to look at him the way she had at their first, eventful meeting.

He had a limited supply of self-control left, and it took every ounce of it to stay calm, act the perfect host, and exude amiability and unconcern. When he saw Keller take her into the gardens he breathed deep, squelched the urge to roar like an enraged bull, politely excused himself from his companions and followed.

He found them in the middle of the gardens, where a large, flat lawn had been created. The two of them strolled slowly along the western edge, admiring the border of alternating stone urns and cypress trees. At least, the girl appeared to be admiring them. Keller’s attention was focused somewhere else altogether.

‘There you are, Keller,’ he called. ‘Lord Bradington is looking for you, old man.’

‘How nice,’ Keller responded. His eyes never strayed from Lily Beecham’s lithe shape.

‘Yes, he’s debating the dating on that collection of gold, die-struck belt mounts in the library. Apparently someone is arguing that they might be Viking-made.’

‘What?’ Now Keller’s head came up and he looked back towards the house. ‘That cannot be right. No, no. Those were clearly manufactured by early Saxons.’

‘Someone’s convinced Bradington otherwise. He’s already talking of changing the placard and moving them in with the other Viking artefacts.’

‘That will not do!’ Keller exclaimed. He looked with regret at the girl. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Beecham, but I will have to go back and remedy this. Shall you accompany me?’

‘No, you go in,’ Jack interjected. ‘Miss Beecham has hardly seen any of the grounds. I shall take her on. You can join us again once you have cleared up this travesty.’

‘Perhaps I should go back,’ she demurred. ‘My friends …’

‘Are all already strolling the gardens,’ Jack said smoothly. ‘I will help you find them.’

She said nothing further. Keller hurried back towards the house and Jack decided it would be prudent to move on.

‘Have you seen the stone gateway?’ He inclined his head at her. ‘It is quite renowned as a place of good fortune.’

‘No …’ she gazed up at him with something that looked like exasperation ‘… I have not. Perhaps we should walk that way before poor Mr Keller discovers your ruse?’

Jack laughed. ‘Was I that obvious?’

‘Perhaps only to those already familiar with your machinations,’ she said sourly.

He indicated the direction and offered up his arm. After a long searching look, she sighed and laid her hand lightly on his.

‘A gate of good fortune, you said?’ she asked. ‘How does it work?’

‘I couldn’t say how the tales originated, but the legend says that you must pause on the threshold, thinking very hard on the difficulties of your life. You must concentrate and count to three silently while you swing open the gate and cross through.’

‘And then?’

‘And then your troubles are over.’ He shrugged. ‘The hardships you focused on will have disappeared.’

‘Would that it were that easy,’ she said wistfully. ‘But I shall definitely write and tell my old nurse of it. She adores tales of superstition and fancy.’

The sun rode low in the afternoon sky. Its rays, filtered through spring leaves, painted the ancient statuary with a forgiving brush. Miss Beecham paused to admire the figure of Palladio. The soft light erased the harsh wear of time on his stern-faced visage, but Jack could not look away from the little fires it lit in the fall of her hair.

‘I tried to get away earlier and ask you to tour the gardens,’ he said. ‘I noticed that you looked a little pale and thought perhaps you’d welcome a quiet stroll with a restful companion.’

An ironic snort was her only answer.

Jack clenched his teeth. Even her sarcasm attracted him. When they resumed their stroll he allowed his gaze to run down the turquoise-and-ivory dress she wore and he briefly mourned the bosom-enhancing high waists that had lately fallen out of fashion.

He breathed deep and forced himself to focus. All of his work today had been leading to this.

‘Hmm. I left myself wide open with that remark and you failed to take advantage of it. Forgive me, but you have not seemed yourself today, Miss Beecham,’ he said. They’d reached a paved circular area from which three avenues radiated outwards. He ignored them all and instead led her on to a smaller, gravelled pathway through a copse. ‘I’m sorry if the day has not been to your liking.’

‘Of course the day has been to my liking, Mr Alden.’ Had she been any younger he would have sworn she would have rolled her eyes at him. ‘I found a peacock feather on the drive as soon as we arrived, so I knew it was certain to be a good day.’

He blinked at that, but she did not pause.

‘But you are right, I have not been acting myself and it has taken some of the shine from what might have been a perfect day—and given me a dreadful headache besides.’

‘Not acting yourself? Well, then, whose role have you been enacting?’

She cast him an arch look. ‘Couldn’t you tell? I would have thought you found it a familiar picture.’

They’d intersected the larger walk that would lead them to the gate. Jack stopped abruptly as his feet hit the smooth surface and stared incredulously at her. ‘Me? You thought to act like me?’

Was that how he looked to her? Aloof, uninterested, distant? Was that how everyone else viewed him as well? The idea astounded him. He’d thought himself reserved, yes, but not so determinedly remote.

Suddenly he began to laugh. He allowed her hand to drop away from his arm, walked over to lean on a sturdy horse-chestnut tree and proceeded to shake with amusement, long and hard.

‘It’s not funny, I assure you.’ Miss Beecham sniffed. ‘I have no idea how you go about like that every day. It’s too much work.’

‘No, no.’ He chuckled. ‘You did an admirable imitation of me. I dare say I should have enjoyed it more had I known what to look for.’ He straightened away from the massive trunk and grinned at her. ‘And, in truth, it was only fair. Now you must return the critique, for I’ve been doing my damnedest to act more like you!’

‘Were you?’ She looked diverted. ‘Well, without a doubt, you should continue.’

‘No! As you say, it’s too much work. I’ve fair exhausted myself.’ He wiped his eye and returned to her side. Reaching down, he took both of her hands in his. ‘Shall we strike a bargain? Let us just be honest with each other. It’s far easier and we got on well enough before.’

She shot him an incredulous look.

‘Well, perhaps I should rephrase. I, in any case, quite enjoyed your company. I would like to continue to do so.’

‘Honesty?’ she asked.

‘Honesty,’ he vowed solemnly.

‘Well, I did enjoy your company before, when you were not being a sanctimonious bore.’

Another burst of laughter escaped him. ‘Well, I cannot promise that it won’t happen again, but if it does, I beg you to let me know and I will attempt to rein myself in.’

She ran a dubious eye over him. Jack felt the heat of her innocent gaze rush from the top of his head down to the shining tips of his boots. Well, perhaps there were a few things he would have to hold back.

This time when he offered his arm she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow with a smile. They strolled companionably for a few minutes before he spoke again.

‘So tell me, Miss Beecham, how are you feeling about your sojourn into society?’

She wrinkled her brow at him. ‘How am I feeling about it? That’s an odd question. Most people just ask me if I am enjoying myself.’

Jack carefully kept his tone neutral. ‘Excepting today, of course, it is obvious to anyone who lays an eye on you that you are enjoying yourself.’

She watched him closely, and then smiled. ‘How do I feel?’ she mused. She took a moment to consider the question, her brow furrowed becomingly. ‘Well, I am enjoying myself, of course. No one spending any amount of time with your mother could do otherwise. But …’ she sighed ‘… I admit to a little anxiety as well. To be honest, I hadn’t expected everything to feel so alien.’

‘Alien?’ he repeated, surprised. ‘How so?’

‘I was born to this world …’ she gestured about them ‘… just as surely as you were, Mr Alden. My father was a wealthy gentleman landowner. My mother’s family has multiple connections to the nobility.’ She shrugged. ‘But the last years of my life have been so drastically different from all of this, and I find that those years have altered the way that I view certain things.’

She fascinated him more every second. ‘Would you share some specifics?’ he asked.

‘Well, all this, for example. Chester House.’ She glanced back towards the house and at the guests they could glimpse wandering through the vast and varied gardens. ‘It’s fascinating and beautiful and educational. I’m very grateful that Lord Bradington invited us to experience it all, but I can’t help but think of all the people who will never view anything like this. I walk through here and I imagine the pleasure these things would bring, the awe they might inspire, if it were all open to the public—in a museum or a pleasure garden, perhaps.’

‘Would not most Evangelicals disagree?’ he asked. ‘I thought they wish to educate the masses only so far as it will help them do their duty and accept their lot in life?’

‘I suppose you are right about that,’ Lily admitted. ‘But to stimulate the mind, to expose it to the greatness that might be achieved by man and perhaps invite it to travel along the same paths—that can never be a mistake, in my opinion.’

Her words set off a burning deep in his chest. She was lovely and generous. And you are a fool, whispered some dark and no doubt perfectly correct part of his soul. He shushed it and struggled to speak in a normal tone. ‘You interest me more by the second, Miss Beecham,’ he said. ‘You also remind me a great deal of a friend of mine.’

‘Really?’ she asked with a half-smile.

‘Truly,’ he affirmed. ‘Though you could not be more opposite on the outside,’ he said with amusement. ‘Chione is half-Egyptian. She is newly betrothed to a gentleman who spends his time searching out antiquities. He has always in the past sold them to collectors. Dragons, Chione calls them.’

Her blue eyes lit up in delight. ‘That is it exactly! Dragons, sitting atop their hordes, jealously guarding it from all but the most distinguished visitors.’

‘I shan’t tell Lord Bradington you said that.’ Jack laughed. ‘Trey, Chione’s betrothed, says that dragons pay best, though.’

‘And his fiancée says …?’

‘Oh, she’s convinced him to commit to the British Museum instead. Now everyone will be able to see the treasures he finds in his travels.’

‘I think I should quite like your friends,’ she said decisively.

Like a bolt from out of the sky, Jack suffered a moment of blinding insight. He recalled the turmoil and frustration he’d endured all day and he knew that he’d felt something similar before. It had crept up on him as Trey and Chione had grown naturally closer. Their intensifying fascination with each other and the mission they were to set out on had left him feeling shut out. Extraneous.

Was that when all this unwanted emotion had begun leaking past the barriers of his internal dams? No, he thought with a twist of gut-wrenching honesty—perhaps it might have begun even earlier, when Charles and Sophie had become so wrapped up in each other and their new family. But no matter when it had begun, there was no doubt that his every encounter with Lily Beecham intensified the problem and left a bigger breach in his internal bulwarks.

Well, he would just have to do some shoring up—and fast. He had a job to do here. He must force himself to forget such nonsense and focus on his objective.

‘I am very glad that you are not a dragon, Mr Alden.’

Her words startled him. ‘What?’

‘You have a vast deal of knowledge. You have obviously spent a great deal of time in research. Yet you don’t hide away in a study somewhere, hoarding your knowledge and expertise like artefacts or jewels. You share it. As you did today. As you do with your journal articles and speeches.’

She looked at him with something he hadn’t seen in her eyes before: respect. Esteem. Jack’s gut clenched in a visceral reaction. He’d seen a beggar child once, standing outside a bake shop, his face a picture of longing and need. God, but he felt just the same way right now. He’d been starving for that look of respect his whole life.

‘It is just as I spoke about earlier,’ she continued. ‘Your passion infects others with the urge to learn, the wish to expand their own horizons. It is a very great gift that you give to the world, and I, for one, am thankful.’

Her words were a surprise and a pleasure. And perhaps a torment. It had been as nothing to take that hungry child inside and gift him with the largest, meatiest pastry the baker had on display. Jack had even left coins in an account so the boy could return. He feared it would be a much more difficult thing to accomplish his aim and still bask in the warm glow of her regard.

A sudden image flashed in his mind’s eye—an ugly picture of his father raging, sweeping a day’s work from his desk, parchment and paper and ink scattering like dust motes through the air.

He blinked. And he hardened his heart and clenched his fist in resolve.

‘We promised honesty, Miss Beecham, did we not?’

‘We did.’

‘Then I wish to be honest with you. Chione is actually part of the reason I wanted to walk with you. I hoped to tell you a little more about her.’

Her brow furrowed in question, but she gave an encouraging nod.

‘When we spoke of my injury, I told you that my friends and I had foiled a robbery.’

‘Yes, I recall.’

‘Well, there was more to it. We were lucky to have stopped a kidnapping plot as well.’

Her eyes widened, but she did not speak.

‘Chione’s grandfather was kidnapped and held for months. The night I was shot, Trey and I and a few others only just prevented the scoundrels from taking her as well.’

She gasped. ‘Thank goodness you were there, then, and able to stop them.’

‘In fact, we were not able to stop them all. One of the villains got away. A very evil man, I’m afraid. A slaver.’

Her expression grew serious. ‘That is unfortunate. I know something of the terrible things such men do to their fellow humans. Mother and I have worked hard to educate our corner of Dorset against the evils of slavery.’

‘It is a shame that a woman like you must be familiar with the depths to which these men will sink. But I think you will understand when I tell you how worried I am. This man is obsessed with vengeance. Chione and her family may still be in grave danger from him.’

‘How horrible,’ she breathed.

They had reached the stone gate. Neither of them paid it a bit of attention. Jack steeled himself and spoke again.

‘I believe that you might be in a position to help.’

Shock widened her eyes and hitched her breath. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. You—and your cousin, Matthew Beecham.’

‘Matthew? What can he have to do with any of this? He is in America!’

‘Actually, he has gone missing.’

Now suspicion darkened her eyes and clouded her features. ‘How could you possibly know such a thing?’

‘Miss Beecham—Lily,’ Jack said, half-pleading. ‘You appear to be well aware that slavery remains a reality in America, just as it does in the British colonies. It is the trade in slaves that has been made illegal in our country and the import of new slaves that has been outlawed in theirs. But apparently Captain Batiste, the slaver we spoke of, misses the days of putting his ship into port and selling poor souls like cattle right off his deck.’

‘But what has any of that to do with Matthew?’

‘I’m nearly there. From what I can gather, your cousin got into some kind of trouble with Batiste. A debt of some sort. Batiste demanded repayment—in the form of some adjustments made to a few of his ships. False compartments, secret holds, that sort of thing. All to enable him to resume his illegal trafficking in people, with those slaveholders unscrupulous enough to deal with him.’

Jack walked away from her horrified stare. The old gateway beckoned. If only the legends were true. He could pass through the archway and his problems would be solved. Well, hell, he would take help where he could get it. He tried the iron gateway set into the stone arch. His arm protested the effort, but it was to no avail anyway. The gate was locked. He should have known.

‘The American government caught on to Batiste’s tricks,’ he continued. ‘But the man is as slippery as an eel. They next went to speak to your cousin, but found he had fled. They want him for questioning.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said flatly.

‘I don’t care about any of that, Lily. I just want Batiste. And your cousin may be able to tell me where to find him.’

Her expression hardened. ‘And that is what all of this has been about, has it not?’ Her slate eyes turned to chill, blue ice as she gestured about them, to the park and the house and the carefree revellers grouped in the distance. ‘Or has it been only that from nearly the very beginning?’

He shook his head.

‘What a lucky coincidence that it was I who you nearly ran down in the street, no?’ she whispered.

‘No. It’s not like that,’ Jack protested.

‘I think it is. You think that I, in turn, will be able to tell you where Matthew is?’ She gave an ugly, bitter laugh. ‘Well I am destined to disappoint you once again, Mr Alden, because you know far more about all of this than I! I knew nothing about any of this. Nothing! I did not even know that Matthew had left his home. And I refuse to believe that he could be mixed up in something so foul as slavery.’

She whirled around and walked away from him and the gate. Before Jack could call out, she let out a sudden gasp and turned back. ‘Does your mother know all of this as well?’

‘No! Of course not,’ he said.

Her shoulders slumped in relief.

‘She knows nothing about it and she won’t unless you choose to tell her. Please, just listen to me,’ Jack asked quietly. ‘You said you were close with your cousin, that you still correspond. All I ask is that you tell me if you hear from him.’

He’d thought her indifference was painful. The contempt that shone from her now cut deep and was nearly unbearable.

He winced and sighed. ‘I can help Matthew. I want to help him. All I need to do is ask him some questions about likely spots where Batiste would hide away. He’s spent a considerable amount of time with the man; he might know something that will enable us to find him.’ He took a step towards her, held out a beseeching hand. ‘My brother has a great deal of influence. He will use it to help your cousin.’

She turned her back on him once more. ‘And if he does not possess the information you want? What will you do then?’

Jack did not even wish to contemplate such a thing. ‘Charles and I will still help him, even if he does not. I swear.’

Her head dropped and she began to pace. Jack watched her graceful form and sent out a silent plea to the heavens. He needed her help. God help him, he was beginning to fear he needed her.

Avoiding his gaze, she passed him and approached the gate. She ran a hand along the elaborately carved stone until she came to the middle. There she ceased her restless motion and gripped the iron railings of the inset door.

‘You don’t know what you are asking!’ She spoke not to Jack, but to the empty park beyond. In the distance people chatted and laughed, but Jack’s world had shrunk alarmingly. Naught mattered save her and him and this gateway to their future.

‘I simply cannot believe my cousin would be mixed up in this. Matthew is a good person. He’s the only person left alive who knows me. Really, truly, deep down inside, he knows me. When we were young he never cared that I preferred a good gallop to gossip, that I would always choose to climb a tree over embroidering a sampler.’ She sent a pleading look over her shoulder. ‘Even now, when he writes, he doesn’t ask me the same inane, irrelevant questions that the rest of the world seems to focus on. He asks me about the crops, and my tenants, and whether I’ve convinced my mother that attendance at a local assembly will not taint my soul.’ She turned to face him again and he saw that her gaze had grown distant and unfocused. ‘He even occasionally remembers to ask if I’ve seen two blackbirds sitting together on a fence post.’

‘Blackbirds?’ Jack began to feel as if they were carrying on two separate conversations.

‘Blackbirds,’ she answered firmly. ‘You see—he understands me and all my foibles and still he cares for me. That is the person you think could stoop so low, the one you are asking me to betray.’

‘It would not be a betrayal. You can trust me, Lily.’

‘Trust you?’ Her voice fairly dripped scorn. ‘I do not even know you, Jack Alden.’

‘Don’t be absurd. You know me well enough to trust my word.’

‘Not I! In fact, I question whether anyone in your life can claim to truly know you. I thought you hid behind your books, but today I begin to wonder if perhaps it is only in your intellectual pursuits that you are open and accessible. At all other times you’ve shown yourself to be distant and cold—closed behind walls that you only think are protecting you.’ She crossed her arms in front of her. ‘I cannot know you or trust you, Mr Alden, until you learn to know and trust yourself.’

With her every word Jack could feel the intelligent, rational man he knew himself to be fading away. She was an innocent, naïve little fool, but he felt wild, frenzied, like a child on the verge of a temper tantrum. She did this to him. Every time he got near her she shone a light on his every flaw, magnified his every emotion until he thought he would go mad with it.

He thought of Batiste, a malevolent threat hovering over Trey and Chione and their family—in just the same way his father had hovered contemptuously, dangerously in the background for most of his life—and he knew he would indeed go mad if Lily Beecham did not co-operate.

‘You don’t know as much as you think you do, Lily. Of a certainty you don’t know what you are asking of me. But perhaps you are right,’ he said, moving closer, his heart pounding, his blood surging. ‘There are also many things that I do not know—including why you feel such antagonism towards me.’

‘I … I don’t,’ she whispered, suddenly flustered.

‘You do.’ He was glad to see her unbalanced. It was only fair. She stirred him up until he felt as if he must prove his manhood or die trying. He approached her stealthily, a hunter prowling forwards with soft, light steps. And she, she was his prey. ‘You lecture me, but I think you must follow your own advice. Everything I see and hear of you tells me that you are a warm person, giving to others. But you will not consider my request—even though it might benefit your cousin and will help save a family from a dangerous and unscrupulous man. And why not? Because the request comes from me?’

‘No.’ Her freckles disappeared again in the flush that rose from beneath her gown.

‘It’s true.’ He advanced further, trapping her between him and the iron bars of the gate. ‘Look deep, as you’ve asked me to do. You are allowing your dislike of me to influence your judgement.’

Her breathing quickened. He could see the flutter of her pulse in her throat, the quick casting about of her gaze as she searched for an escape. ‘I don’t dislike you.’

Discipline had gone. Reason and judgement had disappeared. The other, darker side of Jack’s soul ruled now. It roared to life inside of him, loosing a great whirl of longing and want and more than a bit of anger too. The small bit of sanity he had left knew that anger had no place in this, and urged control. But it was too late for restraint. He held Lily’s gaze prisoner with his own and asked the question to which he must have the answer. ‘Then what do you feel, Lily, when you look at me?’

‘I …’

‘Honesty, remember? Tell me the truth.’ Their lips were but a whisper apart.

She shook her head, looked away, breaking the hypnotic link between them. ‘Not dislike,’ she said to the ground.

He knew that she meant to hide the desire in her eyes—the same desire that flowed molten through him even now. Did it burn like fire through her veins—as it did his? He reached out to trace a fiery path, drawing a fingertip over her collarbone, along the smooth and shimmering nape of her neck. He lifted her chin and forced her to confront him, herself and the truth.

‘Something else entirely,’ was all she said.

The darkness inside of him rejoiced. She was caught—pressed up against the cold iron bars at her back. Jack’s erection bulged hot and leaden between them, and he suffered a brief, stabbing need to press it against her, to trap her between hot and cold, hard and harder. Yet he didn’t do it. Not yet.

Logic and reason put forth one last try, tossing a fleeting image of Batiste at his mind’s eye. Jack ignored it. He’d gone beyond the reach of logic, into a place where pure emotion and hot, liquid lust held sway. Batiste could go to hell. Jack had given himself over to animal need and he revelled in it, sucking in the clean scent of her, gazing with wonder at the flushed expectation on her lovely face.

Then his eye fixed on her mouth. She stared back. That gorgeous, plump lower lip beckoned. As if she knew what it would do to him, she caught it suddenly between her teeth. The startling contrast of soft lush pink and hard white enamel made him want to howl. And then, ever so slowly, her bottom lip slid free, and the tip of her hot tongue traced a soft, wet trail along it.

His heart thumped. His cock surged. He slid his fingers into her curls of red-gold, cradled the back of her head for one long, tender second, and then let go to grasp the bars on either side of her. Pain flashed in his arm, but she made no protest, and only anticipation showed on her face. Jack slipped loose from the last vestige of reason and control, leaned in and branded her with his hot, searing kiss.

Honesty. That’s what Jack gave her with his wild, insistent mouth. It was not what he’d set out to do. Lily had seen the calculation in his eye when he took his first step towards her. But she’d seen it disappear, too. Driven further away as he grew physically closer, supplanted by longing, and need and pure, undiluted want.

Almost from the first moment they met, Lily had asked, pes-tered, demanded that he come out of hiding and show her his true self. Now at last he’d taken the first step and opened a crack in the protective barriers around him. Her arms crept up, across the expanse of his chest and over his shoulders, locking behind his neck and pulling him close. No matter what he said, and despite his unreasonable request, she knew she had an obligation, a responsibility to meet him halfway.

He deepened the kiss, tempting and coaxing with lips and tongue and mouth, while a cascade of voices clamoured an alarm in her head. They threw accusations at her, ugly words like immoral and shame and sin.

She ignored them. This entire trip to London, she realised, had truly been about shutting out other voices and distractions, and learning to hear her own.

So she listened. At first she could only hear the clear and happy note that was born of his kiss. Jack, it hummed. Jack, Jack, Jack. But she forced herself to concentrate further. And what she heard was music, learning and debate. Camaraderie and intercourse with other people with similar interests. And a great clamouring for more. More of all of that, but above all, more of Jack Alden.

Joy erupted within her, stretching and growing until she had to give it voice. She moaned her approval and happiness and relief. And he answered in kind, emanating a low, appreciative rumble that originated in the back of his throat, but somehow ended up pooling hot and deep in her belly. Neither of them could deny the reality and the truth of this moment, just the two of them coming together with nothing else between.

Their kiss changed in the moment when her lips parted and her mouth opened under his. Suddenly he was inside, and the hot, slick slide of his tongue made her wild with need. Passion poured out of him and into her. She took it, honoured by the enormity of his gift, and gave it back to him twice over.

Slowly he coached her, taught her tongue how to play. An eager student, she met him thrust for thrust and pressed herself closer against him. His hands came off the bars and settled into the curve of her neck and shoulder, steadying her while he kissed her with long and languid strokes.

He drew back a fraction and Lily gasped, her breath coming fast and rough. It nearly ceased altogether when he buried his face in the curve of her throat. Her pulse tripped and pounded against him as he made his way down her throat with alternate hard, biting nips and soft, teasing kisses.

But honesty is a rare and fragile thing, and Lily should not have expected Jack’s first foray into the light to be a lengthy one. He gradually slowed and stilled, until they stood clasped unmoving in each other’s arms, his face still buried in the crook of her neck and her cheek pressed hard against his shoulder.

He was the first to disengage. Their hot breath mingled as their gazes met. His chest heaved as desire and need faded.

Lily knew how difficult this must be for him, and yet she had not expected to see regret loom so quickly, nor so strongly that it almost resembled despair. She shook her head. ‘Jack, don’t,’ she whispered.

But the breach was repaired and he had already retreated behind his walls and into safety. His head was shaking, too, in constant small movements that nevertheless signalled a large degree of denial.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This isn’t right. It isn’t me.’

‘Jack.’

‘No! I’m sorry—you ask for something I just don’t have in me to give.’ His brow furrowed, his lips compressed. ‘All I want is to speak with your cousin. I’ll do everything in my power to help him, I swear. If you hear from him, tell him that.’

He spun on his heel and walked away.

Lily could not bear to watch him go. She turned and gazed through the gate once more. For the first time in a long time, she felt she truly knew what she wanted. And it was not the iron bars in front of her blocking her path to good fortune.

Chapter Seven

Jack did not wait for the gathering to officially end. He took a terse leave of his mother, a more polite one of his host, and then he traded a spot in the landau next to Lily for Keller’s mount. Within thirty minutes he was on his way back to London, cursing himself for an uncontrolled idiot and Lily Beecham for a damnably tempting vixen.

Why? He pondered his ridiculous dilemma as the miles passed. Why did the one time he needed to maintain his usual calm and rational focus become the one time he found it impossible to do so? The thought of how badly he’d botched nearly every moment with Lily Beecham sickened him.

He needed to think. Traffic entering London forced him to slow his pace and he cursed under his breath. He longed for the peace and serenity of his rooms. He would refocus, forget the taste of her, the incredible feel of her under his hands, and try to figure out what the hell his next move should be.

Fractious fate intervened, however. When Jack finally made his way home, he sprinted up the stairs—and froze at the sight of his door standing partially open. Wariness, confusion, and finally white-hot anger blossomed in his chest. Silent, he crept forwards. Tense, on alert for any sound or movement from within, he eased the door open. Nothing stirred. Amidst a rising, ever-more-familiar rush of rage, he stepped inside.

Whoever the intruders had been, they’d done a thorough job of it. Every drawer, book, stack of papers, even the clothes in his wardrobe had been torn apart and tossed asunder. Speechless, he stood in the midst of the devastation.

What in hell was this all about? He couldn’t explain this ransacking of his rooms, any more than he could stem his rising tide of temper.

Already weakened by his encounter with Lily Beecham, surrounded by the wreckage of his life, discipline stood not a chance. Jack reached down to pick up a book, sorely tempted to throw it against the wall himself. A whisper of a sound outside gave him pause.

He waited. It came again. The steady, slow sound resolved itself into a set of footsteps on the stairs and only served to fuel his fury. He sunk into a crouch and let it wash over him. Rational thought ceased and blind, pure instinct took hold.

His brain fought back, trying desperately to send the message that something about the approaching threat rang peculiar. But Jack was in thrall to his jangled nerves. The enemy approached, stood just beyond the still-open doorway, set a cautious step over the threshold.

And at his next rational thought, Jack discovered he held a man pressed to the wall. His uninjured forearm pressed tight and cruel into the man’s throat, even as he desperately wished for his knife.

‘Effendi.’ The soft voice in his ear cut through the angry red haze. ‘I do not think you wish to be doing this.’

Startled, Jack glanced to his right. That accent, the silent approach, it could only be … ‘Aswan?’ He looked back, then, to the man he’d pinned. He stepped abruptly away. ‘Oh, God. Eli!’

‘Aye,’ the old sailor-turned-groom grunted, rubbing his throat. ‘And I’ll thank ye for leaving my head attached. Bad enough that I’ll be crossin’ to the other side without my leg. I don’t think the good Lord’ll be so understanding, should I lose my head as well.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He turned to Aswan. ‘But what the hell are you doing here?’ Jack had to admit, he’d felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight of them. These two had been as deeply embroiled in Trey and Mervyn’s search for the Lost Jewel as he had. Jack knew all too well just what this enigmatic Egyptian and peg-legged former sea captain were capable of.

‘There’s news.’ Eli glanced about at the mess. ‘Though I can see we left it a bit too late.’

‘What in blazes is going on? Is Trey with you?’ Jack had jerked suddenly to attention. ‘And who the hell is looking after Chione and Mervyn and the children?’

‘Treyford watches over the family. The slave-taker is still abroad,’ Aswan said. ‘But still he holds sway over many evil men in this country.’

‘Aye, Mervyn’s offices in Bristol and Portsmouth have both been broken into, and both on the same day, it looks like.’ Eli tossed aside a pile of jumbled shirts and settled himself into a chair. ‘I been stayin’ in Wapping, but when I heard, we went up to Mayfair to find the town house looking just like this. We came straight over to warn ye to be on the lookout for trouble.’

Jack laughed bitterly, but not for long. ‘Portsmouth and Bristol both?’ he’d asked. ‘And a synchronised effort? That’s significant manpower.’

‘It’s clear enough now that Batiste is still after the Lost Jewel. Trey cannot hide the fact that he is preparing for a large expedition. He thinks word has leaked to Batiste and that’s why he’s searching the offices.’ Eli glanced about. ‘I s’pose it’s why he’d do your rooms. The bastard wants to know jest where Trey’s headin’—and he’s thinkin’ ye might know.’

Aswan spoke up. ‘This man has a demon in him. He will not stop until he has what he wants.’

The three of them stared at each other in silence. They all knew what Batiste was after did not really exist—and that he would never be convinced of that truth.

‘We’ve got to get our hands on him,’ Jack breathed. ‘He’ll always be there, otherwise. Hanging in the background, waiting for his chance.’

‘Trey’s working on it. He says as you’re to be careful. He feels bad enough about the trouble he’s caused ye.’ Eli exchanged glances with the Egyptian and they both headed for the door. ‘You concentrate on finding Beecham. We’ll uncover what we can about this mess.’ He gestured. ‘We’ll be back to fill ye in before long.’

Dismayed, Jack watched his unlikely allies disappear. He hadn’t the heart to call them back and tell them how badly he’d bungled his search for Matthew Beecham. His anger returned as he stared at the chaos of his rooms. But this time his brain remained engaged. Frantically he began to rifle through the mess, searching for older, sturdier clothing.

There was more than one way to skin a cat, his mother had always told him. Surely there must also be more than one way to catch a scoundrel like Batiste.

Thunk. The tankard hit the table hard, sloshing a wave of dark ale over the brim.

‘Ye’ll need to be drinkin’ a mite more, if ye’ll be taking up the table for the whole of the night,’ the bleary-eyed barman grunted.

‘I’ll order the whole damned place a round when the man you spoke of shows up,’ Jack shot back.

The tapster shrugged and wiped the spill with his stained and dirty apron. ‘Told ye—I’m no man’s keeper. The sod’ll show up, or he won’t. Plenty of other pubs to find ‘is grog in, ain’t there?’

God knew that was the truth, and it felt as if Jack had been in nearly every squalid dockside tavern and low riverside inn in London over the last few nights. ‘I’ll wait just the same,’ he replied and slid a coin across the scarred wood of the table.

The barman eyed the gold, then Jack for a long moment. Finally he scooped up the money, turned and pushed his way back through the low-hung smoke to the tap.

Jack settled in to nurse another pint. The Water Horse might be the seediest, most disreputable pub on the river, but it was the only one that held a promise of a lead to Batiste.

Of all the sailors, dockyard labourers, whores and wharf rats Jack had questioned over the last few days, only the tapster here had flinched at Batiste’s name. A very large purse had bought him the information that one of Batiste’s former crew sometimes drank here.

It was a long shot at best, a fast route to a watery grave at worst. Yet what was the alternative? Pestering Lily Beecham until she heard from her cousin again? Torturing them both and allowing her to goad him into forgetting himself again? He’d rather spend a thousand nights in this sinkhole.

Jack took a drink of the warm ale and grimaced. He’d need an ocean of the stuff to drown his frustration with that girl. Her image hovered in his head, beautiful and lovely and all too tempting. He fought to ignore it, to forget the mad embrace they had shared in Bradington’s gardens. Even the thought of her stirred the emotional turmoil he fought so hard to control.

And perhaps at last he’d come to the real reason he sat at the Horse again tonight. Here he had no attention or emotional energy to spare. Here he had no choice but to focus on his surroundings, on getting the information he sought and on getting himself out alive.

As the hour grew later the likelihood of the latter began to come into doubt. All manner of transactions took place around him, both above board, and by the furtive look of some of the participants, below. The crowd ebbed and flowed like the tide, but through it all someone besides Jack remained constant.

A high-backed booth flanked the door, and two men occupied it most of the night. A massive bull of a man, whose short dingy blond hair peeked from beneath a seaman’s cap, sat silent and watchful with a smaller, swarthier man. They were not drinking either, Jack noted, but the tapster didn’t stir himself to chide them. Not once did Jack see a word spoken between them, but as the taproom grew emptier, the smaller man began to flick an occasional, tell-tale glance his way.

He rose. Better to take his chances in the open than to risk events coming to a head here, where those two might have allies and Jack certainly did not.

He left the pub and strode quickly out into Flow Alley. The fog hung thick and rife with the stench of the river. It swirled and clung to him, making him feel as if he had to swim through it instead of walk.

A lamp hanging outside a pub cast an eerie pool of wavering light as he passed. From the mist floated an occasional snatch of disembodied conversation. It was not drunken revelry or ribald negotiations he strained to hear, but it was not until he reached the wide, empty intersection with Great Hermitage Street that he caught a hint of it—the faint echo of a footstep on cobblestones.

Jack ducked instantly into the doorway of a chandler’s shop. If luck was with him, then whoever it was behind him would walk right on by. If it was not, then at least his back was covered.

Much as he’d expected—Lady Luck had abandoned him. First one figure emerged from out of the gloom, then another. The men from the Water Horse.

Jack drew his knife. Nobody spoke. The shorter man hung back, the larger pulled a stout cudgel from his bulky seaman’s sweater and advanced with a menacing stride.

‘Are you here at Batiste’s bidding?’ asked Jack.

The smaller man spat on to the rough stones of the street. ‘Questions like that is what got ye into this mess.’

‘I just meant to ask if you knew what sort of man you were taking orders from,’ Jack said, never taking his eyes off of the big lout.

‘The sort with gold in his pockets,’ snickered the first man. ‘And before ye ask, no, I don’t care how he come by it—as long as he’s forkin’ over my share.’ He thrust his chin towards Jack. ‘Do it, Post.’

The big sailor moved in. Jack braced himself and waited … waited … until the cudgel swung at him in a potentially devastating blow. Quickly he jumped forwards, thrusting his knife, point up and aiming for the vulnerable juncture under the man’s arm.

But the goliath possessed surprisingly swift reflexes. He shifted his aim and blocked the driving thrust of the knife with the cudgel. The point buried itself in the rough wood. With a grin and a sudden, practised jerk, he yanked the blade right from Jack’s grip.

His gut twisting, Jack knew he was finished. But he’d be damned if he went down without a fight. He ducked low and aimed a powerful blow right into that massive midsection.

He swore his wrist cracked. His fingers grew numb. But the giant just grinned. He reached for Jack. Those thick fingers closed around his neckcloth—and suddenly the great ham-hand spasmed open.

Jack looked up into the broad face so close to his. He met a pair of bulging eyes and flinched at the sight of a mouth wide open in a wordless grunt of pain. From this vantage point, the reason for his silence was clear. Some time, somewhere in this man’s violent past, his tongue had been cut out.

Jack strained, trying to slide out from against the door as the brute turned half-away, reaching behind him. His gaze following, Jack saw the hilt of a knife protruding from the man’s meaty thigh.

The giant grasped the knife. With a thick grunt, he pulled it free. Jack acted instantly, kicking the blade out of the oaf’s hand. Never too proud to take advantage of an opponent’s misfortune, Jack aimed another hard kick at his wounded limb. As the leg began to buckle, he reached up and, yanking hard, pulled his knife free from the cudgel. In a flash, he had it at the man’s throat. The point pricked, drawing blood, before his opponent realised his predicament.

The giant froze. Jack looked over at his companion. ‘Back away,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll cut his throat if I have to.’

A curious, regular tapping sounded out of the mist. Jack tensed, waiting to see what new threat would emerge. Someone had thrown that knife. But which combatant had it been meant for?

His mouth dropped and a wave of surprise and relief swept over him as the fog gave up another figure, wiry, grizzled and wearing an elaborately carved peg below one knee.

‘Eli!’ Jack grinned. ‘You’re like a bad penny, always turning up where you’re least expected.’

The diminutive groom brandished another wickedly long knife. ‘Fun’s over for tonight, mates,’ he said.

The swarthy man let out an ugly laugh. ‘Says you.’ He gestured to his partner. ‘Kill ’em bo—’ His sentence ended abruptly as his legs flew out from beneath him. He flailed briefly and hit the cobblestones hard. In a second’s time, the dark-skinned man in a turban kneeled over him and rested a pistol nonchalantly against his chest.

‘Good evening to you, Aswan.’ This time a dose of humiliation mixed with Jack’s relief. How many times would the Egyptian have to snatch him from the jaws of death?

‘The pair of ye got nowhere to go, ‘cept to hell,’ Eli told the villains with a nod. He gestured for Aswan to release his captive. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry to get there, get up and off wi’ ye both.’

‘Aye, and you keep your friend where he belongs,’ snarled the small man. ‘If we see him again we won’t be giving him his chance—it’ll be a knife in the back from out of the dark.’ He glared at Jack. ‘Understand? Keep to your own lot, bookworm.’

The pair faded into the fog.

‘Come on.’ Eli clapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘This damp is makin’ me leg ache.’

The three of them walked to Leman Street, where they hailed a hackney and had it convey them to a still-open coffee house in the Strand.

The place was empty. The shopkeeper had thrown the chairs up on the tables to sweep, but he was thrilled to stir up a cheery fire and arrange three of his best seats in front of it. He bustled off to fetch coffee and Eli groaned as he settled in and rubbed his leg. ‘Well, which is it, man?’ he asked Jack.

‘Which is what?’ Jack gazed, puzzled, from one of his rescuers to the other.

The groom exchanged a glance with the Egyptian. ‘We told ye we’d deal with this lot. And then we hear tell of a Mayfair toff askin’ questions all over the riverside.’ He shrugged. ‘A man don’t get hisself into a situation like that unless he’s got either a death wish or woman trouble. So which is it?’

Jack groaned and hung his head in his hands.

‘Woman trouble.’ Eli sighed.

Jack peered up at the pair of them. ‘Well, I suppose I should thank you, at any rate.’ He grimaced. ‘What do you hear from Devonshire?’

‘We heard from Trey today. He’s got everything well in hand.’

‘Well in hand?’ Jack scoffed. ‘Batiste’s got his fingers in every pie from here to there and Trey’s got it well in hand?’

‘What I want to know,’ Eli demanded, ‘is why you were at the Horse tonight.’

Jack explained, but Eli just shook his head. ‘It’s more likely that tapster’s in league with Batiste’s men. He probably lured you there and tipped them off.’

‘Well, I had to take the chance, didn’t I?’

The coffee came then, and Eli sighed as he wrapped his hands around his hot cup. Aswan glanced at his mug with distaste.

‘Effendi, why do you feel as if you must take this chance?’ the Egyptian asked.

Jack stared blankly. ‘You just said it, Aswan. Batiste is a dangerous man.’ He glanced around at the empty room, but still lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Chione is your family. Trey and the rest will be soon enough. Can you stomach the thought of him out there, hovering, just waiting for his chance to hurt them? They deserve to live their lives free, without fear and without a constant nagging threat in the background.’

‘Batiste’s more’n dangerous. He’s obsessed, I’d say,’ Eli replied. ‘Treyford wants him taken jest as bad as ye. He’s not above throwin’ his title around, neither. Aswan says as how they’ve had the Navy in Devonshire, and the Foreign Office, too. Even had a couple of Americans in.’ He took a long swallow and grinned in satisfaction. ‘Damned good coffee here.’

‘Treyford sends a message. He has a favour to ask of you,’ Aswan said abruptly. ‘He says you have done well with your cors—corres—?’ He looked to Eli for help.

‘Correspondence. Damned good idea, that. But he’s got someone he’d like you to talk to, as well.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Broken-down seaman, as used to sail with Batiste.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard that one before.’ Jack grinned.

‘No, this one should be no threat. Mervyn’s had word of him. Name o’ Crump. He’s poorly and been set up in the new Seamen’s Hospital. Mervyn says as it’s unlikely he’ll be coming out.’

‘Why me? Wouldn’t he be more likely to speak with you, someone who knows the life he’s led?’

‘No.’ Eli shook his head. ‘He’ll know of my relationship with Mervyn and there’s a risk he won’t want anything to do with me. Crump crewed with Batiste when the bastard still worked for Latimer Shipping. He went with Batiste when the pair o’ them fought and Batiste struck out on his own. He’ll know much about where Batiste hides his head when the chips start to stack against him.’

‘But why would he want to share any of it with me?’

Eli looked him over, considering. ‘Well, Trey says as how yer brother has a title, too—mayhap he wouldn’t mind using it in the name of a good cause?’

‘Oh, well, I’m sure he would not mind, if I asked him.’

‘That ain’t all, though. Trey says ye’ll have been mucking about a bit with some Evangelicals?’

Jack started. ‘Where the hell does Trey get his information? If I didn’t know him better, I’d suspect him to be near as bad as Batiste.’

Eli laughed. ‘Treyford does have his ways. And when ye pair him with Mervyn …’ he shuddered ‘… I don’t think there’s nothing the two o’ them couldn’t tackle.’

‘And just how do they think to use my Evangelical connections?’

‘Crump’s converted. Mervyn thinks he left Batiste when he saw how bad things get on a slave ship. If you could let on that you were of a like mind …’

‘I have friends among the Evangelicals. I’m not one myself,’ Jack said.

‘Crump don’t need to know that, do he?’

Jack sighed. He thought he’d rather take his chances back in the East End, rather than lie to a sickly old sailor. But he’d said he’d do anything that would lead to Batiste’s capture, hadn’t he? An image flashed in his head—Lily, her lips red and flushed full from his kiss, an unuttered plea in her eyes. Immediately, he pushed it away.

‘I suppose not,’ he said.

‘Would you be needin’ anything else, miss?’

Lady Dayle’s footman did not look at Lily as he spoke. His gaze was very firmly locked on the pump house at the centre of the garden in Berkeley Square, where several giggling maids had gathered.

‘No, thank you, Thomas, I am fine here,’ she said, settling on to a bench situated under a shady plane tree. She’d come seeking solitude, and would not have brought the footman at all, had Lady Dayle not insisted. ‘I shall call you when I am ready to return.’

‘Very good, miss.’ He turned away with an eager step, but then paused a moment, looking back. ‘You’re sure you’re all right, Miss Lily?’

She was touched by the concern in his tone. ‘I’m fine, Thomas.’ She smiled. ‘But thank you for asking.’

He pivoted back to face her again, but kept a respectful distance. ‘I don’t mean to overstep, miss, but I hope you don’t mind if I tell you: I think you’ve adjusted—to London and the fancy, I mean—right well.’

‘Thank you,’ she said again.

‘It’s just that I was new here, too,’ he said earnestly, ‘a few years back. I think your world, your old one, I mean, it was … different?’

‘Oh, yes, vastly different,’ she agreed with fervour.

‘Mine, too. I was green as grass—and I made mistakes, some real whoppers. But I got used to it, and you will, too, and, like I said, I think you’re doing fine.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered past the growing tightness in her throat. Kindness from such an unexpected source cheered her—and made her realise how unskilled she must be at hiding her emotions.

‘I shall wait for your summons, then,’ he said, but his cheery grin negated the formality of his words.

Lily nodded and watched him join the knot of maidservants at the centre of the square. They welcomed him with enthusiasm and more than one flirtatious smile. Clearly Thomas had made a successful transition from his old world to his new.

She sighed, fearing her own task would turn out to be more difficult. For she did not seek to leave one sphere for another. She meant to somehow meld two very different worlds into a new one. All she wanted was to carve out a place of her own, a space of comfort and acceptance, where she could thrive and grow. But she had begun to fear that Jack Alden was right, she was asking for more than anyone was ready to give.

No. Jack was a spike in her heart and every thought of him ripped her open a little wider. She’d spent the last days in a restless state of anxiety and indecision. Over and over she played in her mind’s eye those exciting moments, that soul-searing kiss. At every private moment, she relived the passion and the nearly magical sense of spiralling desire. She’d touched his lips, his body, his heart and mind.

And he had turned on his heel and coldly abandoned her.

Incredibly, Lily had understood. Not only did they come from different worlds, but different perspectives as well. She felt more than a little torn herself, and when she was not reliving the excitement of their embrace, then she was wavering helplessly between agony and joy. Joy because she’d reached him. She’d peeked inside him and seen that this indefinable pull, this attraction between them, was real and it ran deep. Agony because he had also asked too much of her.

She could never believe that Matthew had gotten mixed up with slavers. It was not possible, as anyone acquainted with him would know. He could not be capable of such cruelty.

Jack was a scholar. His brother did have political ties, and had seen more than a little success. But she knew from Lady Dayle that none of it had come in the area of diplomacy. According to the viscountess, Viscount Dayle’s area of interest lay in economics and reform. He’d never, to his mother’s knowledge, had dealings with the Foreign Office or contact with anyone in the American government.

Lily did not doubt Jack’s wish to help Matthew. But she very much doubted his ability to do so. He wanted to see this Batiste captured so badly that he’d turned a blind eye to the likely consequences to her cousin. Even the suspicion of such a thing could ruin him.

She glanced up, wanting to make certain that Thomas was fully occupied. And sent up a prayer of thanks. Another man in livery had joined the group and Thomas had entered a full-scale war for feminine attention. While every eye locked on to the thrilling sight of a grown man in full livery and powder scaling the mounted statue of George III, Lily slipped away towards a more private corner of the garden.

The paths here, like the garden itself, lay in an elliptical shape. It did not take long to turn a curve and find herself alone. She breathed deep. This morning a parcel of forwarded mail had arrived from home. And in it had been a letter—slanted across with Matthew’s familiar bold handwriting.

Lily’s hand shook as she reached into her pocket to pull it out. Quickly, furtively, she broke the seal.

Dearest Lily,

In that moment, she knew the tidings could not be good. Every other letter she’d ever had from Matthew had been addressed irreverently to Lilikins, his childhood name for her. Her eyes filled, making it difficult to read on.

I don’t know what you might have heard, if indeed you would have heard anything at all. But I want you to know—a good reason lies behind my actions. I cannot explain now, but all will be clear when next we meet. I’ve only just left Le Havre, and I know not just where we will go. Please don’t believe the worst of me. I will contact you again when I can.

Yours,

Matthew

Lily raised shaking fingers to her mouth. Jack could not have been right. She would not believe it.

But wait a moment. His story coloured her interpretation. This told her nothing, really. She braced herself against a tree, sucking in air. She could not tell Jack about this letter.

Would he understand? She suffered a pang of doubt. The intensity with which he spoke of the danger to his friends suggested otherwise. She drew away from the tree, folded the note and stood upright. She would make him understand. Surely he was not so insulated behind his walls of intellect and scorn that he could not understand loyalty.

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