A spy on a mission...

Until he meets this heiress!

Part of The King’s Elite: Miss Theodora Cranford’s learned to keep her impetuous nature locked away. She won’t be deceived by another man who can’t see past her fortune. She wants an honorable, sensible sort—not a self-assured scoundrel like her new neighbor, Lord Gray. Although she’s sure there’s more to him than meets the eye... But after that first captivating kiss, she’s certainly left wanting more!

When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex, with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her for ever to fall asleep.

Also by Virginia Heath

The Wild Warriners miniseries

A Warriner to Protect Her

A Warriner to Rescue Her

A Warriner to Tempt Her

A Warriner to Seduce Her

The King’s Elite miniseries

The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

The Uncompromising Lord Flint

The Disgraceful Lord Gray

And look out for the last book in the series

coming soon!

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Disgraceful Lord Gray

Virginia Heath

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08887-9

THE DISGRACEFUL LORD GRAY

© 2019 Susan Merritt

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Claire Sayers, who gave Gray his name,

and for Trevor, my adorable, naughty Labrador,

who made the perfect hero’s sidekick.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
July 1820

There was no doubt about it. Lord Fennimore was going to have his guts for garters. Especially after the unfortunate shredded underwear incident of last night. The commander of the King’s Elite had no discernible sense of humour which didn’t bode well for Gray’s newly discovered, but no less coveted ambition.

‘Trefor! Give it back. Now!’

There was no point in chasing him. The blasted dog saw everything as a game and had been in a state of playful overexcitement ever since they arrived in Suffolk yesterday—and who could blame him, really? Aside from a few brief weeks after his birth, Trefor had always been a city dog. If one ignored Hyde Park and St James’s, vast open spaces of green were completely alien to him. But the green here was never ending, filled with flat fields to dash across, abundant trees to relieve himself against and sticks aplenty to chase with impunity. Doggy paradise. And Gray’s mischievous mutt seemed determined to reach this strange, alluring new horizon at lightning speed with curmudgeonly old Fennimore’s slipper clamped firmly between his jaws.

To tease Gray, the dog dropped the stolen booty at the boundary to their rented property and eyed him mischievously, his powerful tail wagging nineteen to the dozen, his floppy ears pricked and his enormous pink tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth like a juicy slice of ham.

Gray examined his cuffs, looked at the sky, some trees, anything but his dratted hound while he slowly edged his way forward, hoping to convince the animal he wasn’t fixated on his superior’s now slobbery shoe at all. Mere inches away he lunged like a panther, only to growl as the dog snatched up the blasted slipper again before he could reach it and raced towards the tree-lined horizon once more.

‘Trefor!’

This time Gray did give chase, not only because of his dour superior’s footwear, or because the animal had disappeared into a small wooded copse, but because a couple of sheep had also appeared in the distance and his dog had even less experience of sheep than he did wide open spaces. He needed to make a good first impression on the Viscount Gislingham. He needed to befriend him. Ingratiate himself. Be the perfect neighbour and work his way into his small, intimate social circle. More than anything, he needed to impress Lord Fennimore if he was ever going to stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting that coveted promotion. Something unlikely to happen if his out-of-control canine injured one of the flock and the Viscount banned him from entering the grounds; the mission shot in the paddock before it had even started.

Not that Trefor was violent; he was a licker, not a biter. He adored everyone and everything and loved them enthusiastically. Something the dim-witted sheep would not know as he came bounding towards them intent on saying hello. Why had he insisted on bringing his dog along? All his lofty claims that a proper country gentleman would have at least one loyal hound at his side seemed to be doomed to be ruined by the said hound from the outset because, while Trefor was exceedingly loyal, he was also completely untrainable.

The dog failed to materialise out of the clump of trees, their trunks so densely packed Gray had to skirt around them before he encountered the unexpected steep bank of a deep yet narrow stretch of water which cut through the flat pasture.

Marvellous.

There had to be water.

Trefor’s absolute favourite thing in the world bar footwear, sticks, balls and sausages. There was no point hoping he hadn’t found it or wasn’t fully immersed in it. Some things were as inevitable as day following night or another carpeting from his furious superior about his unruly, destructive pet mere hours since the last. This morning, more than Lord Fennimore’s slipper would be going home soggy—not that Gray blamed Trefor for that either. The summer sun was already blazing in the sky and it was only eight o’clock.

Last night, thanks to the sticky heat, the huge weight of the new responsibility on his shoulders, his overwhelming desire to show old Fennimore that he was exactly the right man for the job and the strange bed, he had slept so fitfully he would have dunked himself in this convenient stream in the small hours had he known of its existence. Because of his unexpected morning sprint, the cold wash he had revelled in a scant few minutes ago in his new bedchamber was now wasted and his meticulously ironed shirt was clinging to his hot skin in a manner no gentleman would allow to be seen in public.

Not that he was much of a gentleman. Not any more at any rate, although that was all of his own making so there was no point being angry about it. He was over it now. Nearly a decade after his life had imploded, he was actually rather philosophical about the experience. Life was too short for regrets, especially when he had racked up so many.

Gray had come a long way since those dark days of his youth. He shared little in common with the reckless, needy adolescent he had been that fateful summer. Or the aristocratic brother he hadn’t seen since his heart had been ripped in two by betrayal. Betrayal that had come courtesy of the cold, unfeeling father who had instigated it behind Gray’s back and the woman who hadn’t truly loved him at all. Nor did he have any regrets about what might have been. The wife and immature, romantic and ultimately futile dreams of the future he had once believed should have been his now rarely crossed his mind. It was what it was. Done and dusted. And fate had sent him hurtling down a very different path, one he was pleasantly surprised had led to adventure instead of matrimony.

He was now older, much wiser and was clearly what he had been born to be. A spy tasked with bringing the enemies of the Crown to justice. A man who had seen and done more than most. Experiences that had made him hardy, resourceful and tenacious. Aside from having his childish heart shredded and creating the mother of all scandals, he’d had an interesting life since. Travelled the world. Seen and done some amazing things, met a variety of fascinating people, both eminently good and outrageously bad. Temporarily dallied with considerably more women than the single one he had originally pledged to spend eternity with, and he now worked for His Majesty’s government instead. How many of his former peers could say that?

If he, or his incorrigible mutt, didn’t make a total hash of this mission, soon Gray would also command the Invisibles—the highly trained, most covert and most important branch of the King’s Elite—answerable only to Lord Fennimore, the Home Secretary and the King in that order. Not bad going for a man disowned by his family for losing his entire fortune in the gaming hells at the tender age of twenty-one. He had craved adventure and entertainment far more than he wanted to conform.

Still did, truth be told. Ten hard years and a brutal betrayal still hadn’t managed to dampen his mischievous zest for life or his tendency to live entirely in the moment. Life was too short to ponder what might have been. If it was meant to be, it would have happened. It was as simple as that. There was no point lamenting the fickle finger of fate or wasting time being angry or crippled by remorse. Better to live his life much like Trefor did. Enjoy the here and now, forget the past which couldn’t be changed and let tomorrow sort itself out.

Gray craned his ears until he heard joyous splashing and the dog’s trademark swimming grunt. A cross between a cough and snort, muffled slightly no doubt by the obstruction of the stolen slipper betwixt his teeth. Gray tracked it several yards along the bank, then stood and glared at the animal deliriously paddling in a happy circle below.

‘Well, I’m in for another blistering lecture thanks to you. Were the old man’s drawers not enough? I thought he would have an apoplexy when you shredded them, but at least he brought spares. I’m fairly certain he only brought one pair of slippers.’ He put his hands on his hips and channelled the disappointed expression his father had always worn when addressing him. It felt odd on his face. ‘I hope you are proud of yourself, young man?’

Judging by the joyful wag of Trefor’s fierce whip of a tail in the water, he was. Happy and proud and gloriously cool. It took around five seconds to decide not to attempt to drag the dog out. The slipper was ruined. Beyond hope. Lord Fennimore’s lecture was now unavoidable, yet the day was young, the spot secluded and the water enticing. A nice, refreshing swim would certainly take the sting out of the tongue lashing and it would be a terrible shame to waste the opportunity. Especially when the hopelessly wayward part of his character still couldn’t resist the seductive lure of the moment even now.

His dog saw the indecision and swiftly dropped the slipper as he climbed up the bank. It took approximately three seconds of foraging in the undergrowth before Trefor found a suitable stick, then he sat like a good boy and gazed at his master winsomely, the invitation to play clear in those manipulative, soulful dark brown eyes. As resistance was futile, and before he did anything remotely sensible like reconsider, Gray tugged off his shiny new boots, stripped off his newly tailored aristocratic clothes and waded happily into the water.

* * *

‘We should probably find a little shade to set up your easel.’ Thea gazed up at the clear blue sky and the unobstructed sun and frowned. Much as she loved the sunshine, it didn’t love her. Pale, sensitive skin was the redhead’s curse. Any more than twenty minutes’ exposure and she was guaranteed to look like a beetroot for days.

Harriet rolled her eyes dramatically, greatly put upon despite dragging Thea out of bed at the crack of dawn to chat to her while she attempted to paint. Watercolours were Harriet’s new hobby and, like all her hobbies, destined to be abandoned because nothing truly held her wandering interest for long. ‘You wouldn’t burn if you’d wear a bonnet.’ Not that she was wearing one either, or a lace cap—when everyone expected mature widows of good breeding to wear one of those at all times.

‘You know a hat in this heat will only make my head hot and then my dratted hair will turn into a big ball of frizz.’ Thea began to stride towards the trees, knowing her companion wouldn’t really begrudge her some shade as long as she kept her company. They were an odd partnership, separated by thirty years in age yet the very best of friends as well as neighbours. Probably because Harriet was basically naughty and devil-may-care by nature and didn’t give two figs about it, while Thea feared she was exactly the same, but worked hard to control it. A classic case of opposites attracting. Or birds of a feather flocking together. Living within spitting distance, and in the absence of any other local ladies who held either of their interests long, they had formed an unlikely bond shortly after her friend had been widowed.

‘Aunt Caro has invited half the county for tea this afternoon and for once I’d like to look a little less of a disaster than usual.’ Although the humidity was already playing havoc with her coiffure. Despite all the pins and plaits her maid had used to tame it this morning, Thea could still feel a great many of the unruly strands making a determined break for freedom from their tight shackles and twisting themselves into their preferred upright corkscrew shape.

She castigated the Almighty daily for saddling her with vertical, twirling, wayward hair. While she rather liked the colour—the red was unique and gave her a touch of dash as well as giving her the excuse not to wear the insipid pastels other unmarried girls had to wear—the unpredictable curls were a menace. When all the other young ladies had artful, bouncing ringlets framing their face, Thea wore a veritable halo of fluff.

‘Will a certain Mr Hargreaves be there?’

‘Lord, I hope not! The man is such a dreadful bore.’ And an obvious fortune hunter who Thea suspected was one of her aunt’s cast-offs, not that she would ever admit such a thing even to Harriet. Her suspicions about her aunt’s infidelities were hers alone and, no matter how many times her friend pumped her for gossip, she kept her counsel. While she loved her uncle to distraction, he wasn’t a particularly good husband and had neglected his fragile second wife abominably over the years. At times his tone towards Aunt Caro was overly antagonistic and bitter, and if he was in the mood to be ornery with her then it was uncomfortable to watch. Poor Caro, in turn, had sought comfort elsewhere over the years and, although Thea didn’t condone it, she tried not to judge. Theirs was the unhappiest of marriages and a stark warning of what could happen if you settled for the wrong person.

Mr Hargreaves was one of several who might have warmed her aunt’s bed on her frequent forays out. The pair shared far too many knowing looks when they assumed nobody was watching them. ‘All he talks about are his superior connections—as if the fact he knows Lord and Lady So-and-So should impress me.’

‘He’s handsome though. If one has to be bound to a man for all eternity, it’s best he is easy on the eye. I insisted upon that when I had to marry. Crudge, God rest him, was exceptionally easy on the eye and liked to ride. Such pursuits do wonders for a gentleman’s buttocks. In my humble opinion, there is nothing better than a pert pair of cheeks encased in tight buckskin.’ Her incorrigible older friend had a wicked glint in her eye. ‘Did I ever tell you I seduced him first?’

‘Repeatedly.’ And in intriguing detail. Practically all of Thea’s knowledge of procreation came from Harriet’s detailed confessions.

‘I was already falling in love with him, was certainly in lust with him, and saw no point in beating around the bush with a long and protracted courtship. Obviously, it all turned out for the best. We married in haste and got to enjoy seeing each other naked a great many more times than we would have done had we adhered to the fashion for protracted courtships.’ She sighed again. ‘And, by Jove, did that man look good naked... Mr Hargreaves has a pleasant posterior. Or at least I think he has. I haven’t managed a thorough scrutiny yet to be completely sure, but I did catch a hint of a glimpse at last month’s hunting party. Decent thighs—which usually are a good sign. They suggest a certain robustness. Although, in truth, I want more for you than him. I want you to have some adventure and excitement first. Your life is far too predictable and regimented for one so young. It’s a crying shame...wait... Is that a dog barking?’

They both paused and listened. After a beat of total silence broken only by the chirping sounds of the morning chorus, a succession of rapid, high-pitched woofs could be heard coming from the trees.

‘That doesn’t sound good.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ The bushes beyond rustled violently and the dog barked again, setting her vivid imagination whirring with possibilities. ‘Do you suppose the poor thing is in distress?’

Thea adored animals. The thought of one in pain was too awful to bear. More barking set her heart racing, but answered her question. With images of a poacher’s trap and a grisly death in her mind, Thea picked up her skirts and broke into a run. Twice this last month her uncle’s gamekeeper had found snares on the estate and evidence that someone was helping themselves to his pheasants. If the poor dog’s paw was caught, it would panic and injure itself in its quest to free it.

Thea plunged into the trees, following the sound, then skidded to a halt at the top of the bank at the unexpected sight of an exceedingly pert pair of male buttocks.

Very nice and very naked male buttocks.

A pathetic squeak of shock popped out of her mouth before she covered it with her hands and the buttocks disappeared beneath the water a second before the owner of them turned around, his own hands covering the most important part of his modesty. Which was now quite submerged, but leaving little else to her imagination. Her eyes travelled upwards from those hands to the flat abdomen bisected by an arrow of intriguing dark hair which widened over a broad chest. Muscled shoulders. A gloriously strong set of biceps. Twinkling blue-grey eyes stared cockily right back at her, clearly amused and set in one of the most outrageously ruggedly handsome faces she had ever seen.

‘Good morning, ladies.’

‘Er...’ For the first time in her life, Thea had no words at all. Her cheeks were glowing scarlet and it took all her strength to stop her eyes wandering back to where they had just feasted, making her blink and gape like a hooked fish. Because it was the right and proper thing to do, she immediately averted her badly behaved eyes and stared off into space, mortified.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Harriet’s voice over her shoulder, then she unsubtly nudged Thea with her elbow. ‘I take back everything I said about buckskin, Thea. It is vastly overrated.’ Shamelessly, her friend barged past—no doubt to get a closer look. Harriet would never avert her eyes. ‘And who might you be?’

‘Lord Graham Chadwick.’ In her peripheral vision, the naked man executed a courtly bow with one hand still clutching his unmentionables, apparently completely comfortable and unrepentant in his nudity. ‘But do call me Gray. I am new to the parish.’

‘Ah, yes! You have recently rented Kirton House, have you not? Why—we are practically neighbours, my lord.’ Typically, Harriet was not lost for words. Evidently, she felt the situation warranted small talk, no doubt to prolong the encounter for her own outrageous reasons. ‘I am Lady Crudgington of Exley House and this is Miss Theodora Cranford, your new landlord’s ward.’

‘His ward?’

Hearing herself mentioned by the naked man himself, Thea guiltily looked up, heartily ashamed that her eyes had scandalously manoeuvred to his impressive chest again when she had been trying so hard to keep them properly latched elsewhere. After a valiant battle with the wayward, impetuous inner Thea, her eyeballs reluctantly flicked to his. The cocky smile was gone, replaced with an expression she couldn’t quite fathom.

‘The very one, although Thea has long passed the milestone of her majority, so is technically just his niece now.’ Harriet shot her a loaded glance. ‘Content to wither in her uncle’s house until Cupid sends her a worthy knight in shining armour to finally whisk her away.’

Before her interfering friend began matchmaking in earnest, something she was prone to do at every available opportunity, Thea had to interrupt despite having no earthly clue what she should say. ‘Mr Gray... I mean, Lord Graham... Er...’

Could this be any more mortifying?

‘We heard a dog... I came to rescue it... I didn’t mean to interrupt your... Um...’ Gracious, now she was waffling like a ninny and her silly eyes were darting every which way possible. It probably looked as though she suffered from an uncontrollable facial tick. One which explained why no knight had thus far bothered saving her. Her face was so warm and doubtless so very red with guilt that one could toast crumpets on it if there happened to be some handy.

To save herself from further embarrassment and to give her naughty eyes something suitable to do, Thea rapidly turned her back and stared resolutely at the trees. ‘Put some clothes on, sir! You are a disgrace. What do you think you are about, cavorting naked in my uncle’s stream?’

Hopefully that let him know in no uncertain terms that she did not consider him shining-knight material and was horrified by his total lack of propriety rather than itching to stare unabashedly at his wet body. His shirt and breeches lay in a heap near her feet, so she snatched them up and without turning around wafted them in the general direction of her friend. ‘Give him these! Immediately!’

She could hear him wading towards the bank and, if she turned her eyes slightly to the right, could see Harriet holding his shamelessly discarded garments in such a way that Lord Whatever-His-Name-Was would have to rise out of the water to reach them. She shot her friend a pointed look which was, of course, completely ignored.

‘Tell me, my lord, how exactly did you come to be naked in Gislingham’s brook? Are there no bath tubs in Kirton House?’

‘I apologise wholeheartedly for shocking you, ladies.’ She saw his big hand grab the proffered clothes, then heard the water move as he sunk back into it. ‘But I blame my dog. He led me astray. Trefor is a very bad influence. It is entirely his fault you caught me cavorting.’

At that, something fast and as black as pitch emerged out of the foliage with an enormous stick in its mouth. He took one look at Thea and simultaneously dropped the stick and shook himself, sending a spray of muddy water all over her favourite green-sprigged muslin, before wagging his tail cheerfully.

Then he lunged.

Two big, wet paws hit her squarely on her belly and she lost her balance. Arms waving like a windmill in a gale, she struggled to stay upright. Instinctively she threw one foot behind to steady herself, only to realise too late that she stood on an incline. Thea tumbled clumsily backwards, her feet lifting from the bank as gravity took over. To her utter horror, she landed with a huge splash in the water mere inches from the irritating naked man’s groin.

Chapter Two

Judging from her furious expression after she emerged coughing and spluttering from the water, Gray shouldn’t have laughed. Especially as she was, unbelievably, Gislingham’s ward and he needed to make a good impression. But with Trefor already swimming in excited circles around her, her vibrant hair plastered over her face and her blush so ferocious she practically glowed, he couldn’t help it. It had been a spectacular fall.

‘Here... Let me help you up.’

She slapped away his proffered free hand. ‘No, thank you! I know where that has been!’ Outraged and delightfully flustered, she dragged herself to her feet, shooting daggers at her companion who was also snorting with barely contained laughter, as she tried and failed to climb up the slippery bank. ‘Don’t just stand there, Harriet! Do something!’

Keeping his filthy hands to himself and wondering exactly how he was supposed to fix this mess before Lord Fennimore had him lynched for his carelessness, Gray watched the older woman brace her legs and heave the fuming redhead out of the water. Despite his now-subdued mood, it was a wholly pleasant sight. Miss Cranford’s soaked, thin summer dress was stuck to her shapely body like a second skin, moulding wonderfully to reveal a gorgeous peach of a bottom, and because she had to hoist her dripping skirts up to scramble up the incline, he saw a great deal of a very fine pair of legs from ankle to mid-thigh. He had always had a thing for bottoms and legs. Hers weren’t covered in stockings, giving him a splendid view of her pale alabaster skin, which nicely filled in some of the blanks in his suddenly rampant imagination.

She would be wonderfully pale from top to bottom, and, like a Titian, that paleness would perfectly set off all her riotous hair. Although darker now that it was soaked, Gray remembered how it had popped and crackled in the sunlight when he first saw her, like the dying embers of a warm winter fire. Evidently, he now had a penchant for redheads as well as bottoms and legs. Who knew? It was these surprising, unforeseen revelations which made his meandering life interesting. That and the enormous potholes it consistently threw in his path.

He did a quick flick through his many happy memories, disappointingly sparse these last two years since ambition had come unexpectedly knocking, and came to the unfortunate conclusion he had never bedded a redhead before. Something he needed to remedy—but not yet. It was a crying shame he couldn’t bed this one, because she was a tasty morsel if ever there was one, but Gislingham’s ward wasn’t his mission.

Gislingham was.

For the foreseeable future, Gray had to be on his very best behaviour. But he would store it in his mind for future reference and try to repair whatever damage he had done, making a mental note to seek out a suitably willing redhead as soon as he was able as a reward if he miraculously managed to save things.

While the ladies were occupied on the opposite bank, he swiftly pulled on his shirt then sank down in the water to wrestle on his breeches. Something much easier said than done. Only once he was semi-decent did he risk scaling the bank.

Miss Cranford was striding across the parkland by the time he had grabbed his boots, her fists clenched tightly at her sides and her lovely legs tearing up the ground, oblivious of the already besotted Trefor trotting along beside her. Gray didn’t bother calling his hound back, instead he sprinted bare foot to catch up with Lady Crudgington, who was still grinning, intent on eating an enormous slice of humble pie.

‘My sincerest and humblest apologies, ladies. My lack of propriety was unforgivable.’ Yet another thing for Lord Fennimore to justifiably rant about and one he couldn’t blame on his dog. ‘I feel dreadful.’ Which was true, but for entirely different reasons. He blamed the spectre of ambition which had unwelcomely crept up on him and simply refused to go away no matter how much he tried to tell it that he was a wandering gypsy at heart. With every passing moment, that coveted promotion was slipping away, as all things he coveted tended to do if he wanted them too badly. And as per usual, it was all his fault. He really did need to work harder at being a better spy. Especially as his tendency to live in the moment had created this moment—one he would much prefer not to have happened at all.

‘A bit of water never hurt anyone, my lord, and it was very funny.’

‘Traitor!’ Miss Cranford’s head whipped around and she positively glared at her companion.

‘Well, it was funny, Thea. You’d think so, too, if you weren’t in a snit about your hair.’ The older woman dropped her voice conspiratorially, while clearly intending for her delicious friend to hear. ‘It takes for ever to tame the natural curl, poor thing, and she wants to look her best for Mr Hargreaves this afternoon.’

‘I most certainly do not want to look my best for Mr Hargreaves!’ Miss Cranford stopped so abruptly, Gray almost walked into the back of her. The flecks of copper in her dark eyes matched her hair. They narrowed in accusation. ‘Look at the state of me!’ Noticing the two muddy paw prints on the front of her dress for the first time, she rubbed at the stain ineffectually. ‘This will take hours to repair!’

‘It would be my honour to buy you a new gown, Miss Cranford, to replace the one my dog has ruined.’ On cue, Trefor nuzzled her thigh with his head and began to wag his tail so fast the whole of his gangly body shook, gazing up at her in canine adoration. Gray watched her eyes drop to the animal and soften and in that second found himself liking her a great deal. And his dog. She clearly had a weakness for the mutt, which might be the only hope he had. ‘Trefor is very sorry, too, if it’s any consolation. Look at his eyes.’ Only the most hardened of individuals—or Lord Fennimore—could not be seduced by those sorrowful eyes.

Her hand dipped down to tickle the dog’s ear. ‘You’re a good boy really—aren’t you, Trefor? Just boisterous is all. I don’t blame you for what happened in the slightest.’ He heard the intended dig as she glared somewhat half-heartedly at him, and he did his best to look contrite. She was calming down and seemed in no hurry to stop petting the dog.

‘Miss Cranford, I really do feel wretched. I should have behaved with more decorum. In my defence—although I am well aware what you witnessed was wholly indefensible—the parkland was quite deserted when I ventured into the stream. Trefor loves water, you see, and he especially loves it with me in it. Had I had any inkling that somebody would stumble across me so early I would never have sullied your delicate sensibilities with the sight of me cavorting in my birthday suit.’ He felt his lips twitching again and bit down tightly on the bottom one to stop it. Good spies didn’t ruin contrition with laughter. ‘I can assure you it will never happen again.’

‘Well, I for one enjoyed it immensely, my lord,’ said Lady Crudgington with a wicked grin. ‘Do feel free to cavort in my presence whenever you see fit.’

‘Harriet is incorrigible.’ A vibrantly blushing Miss Cranford was crouching down to tickle Trefor’s suddenly skyward-facing tummy, rather than looking directly at him. He silently willed his dog to remain prostrate and adorable for as long as it took to earn her forgiveness.

‘That I am, young man, and proudly so. I behaved myself for thirty years and that was quite long enough. I keep hoping a little of me will brush off on Thea, but alas, she is too buttoned up nowadays for her own good. She has become one for rules, Lord Gray, whereas I am one to break them. Which are you?’

Most definitely the second. Obeying rules for his first twenty years had ultimately left his life in tatters. ‘I shall allow you to work that out for yourself, my lady. I couldn’t possibly comment.’

‘A kindred spirit! How marvellous, Lord Gray.’ She whacked him with her elbow.

‘His name is Lord Graham.’

‘Which doesn’t suit him at all. Gray is his preferred name and it matches his eyes, so he shall be Lord Gray to me now for evermore. It sounds so much more romantic than Graham. Do you have any objections to your new name?’

‘Not at all. You may call me what you wish. I’ve never been particularly fond of it.’ It reminded him too much of his unfortunate links to his father and brother.

‘Splendid! Then it is decided. An exciting new name for an exciting new gentleman! It is just as well, for the society hereabouts is very staid, my lord. With the notable exception of my lovely young friend here and her charming uncle, I can barely tolerate most of them. However, I think I shall enjoy having you as a neighbour. I even approve of your dog.’

So did Miss Cranford, who had happily turned into Trefor’s willing slave as she petted him, all the previous fraught tension in her delectable, damp body beginning to disappear in the thrall of his dog’s spell. ‘Is Trefor a mongrel? Only I’ve never seen a dog that looks anything like him.’

Gray stared in mock affront. ‘Cover his ears! Don’t let him hear that, Miss Cranford! He will feel inferior.’ He bent over to scratch the shameless mutt’s belly, enjoying the way her eyes shyly locked with his for a second before she hastily returned them to the dog. ‘In actual fact, he is the result of two centuries’ worth of careful breeding. He is a St John’s. Rather aptly, bred to be a water dog to help the fishermen of that smelly port haul in their nets. They are excellent swimmers with the most amiable of temperaments. He’s come all the way from Newfoundland.’

‘Really?’ It was obvious she was a dog-lover. She had barely taken her eyes off Trefor since he had cosied up against her.

‘Indeed. Many moons ago, I was in the merchant navy.’ Gray had run away to sea within days of the momentous scandal exploding and had happily stayed at sea while it blew over, the dust settled and society quite forgot about him. ‘My ship was docked in that very harbour and one of the fishermen was offloading a litter of puppies, intent on drowning any he could not rehome that day. As Trefor was the runt of the litter, none of the other fishermen wanted him.’

‘And you took him?’ Her lovely eyes left his dog’s belly and locked with his, impressed. It had the strangest effect, almost as if he was suddenly bathed in sunshine that he never wanted to leave.

‘I couldn’t let the poor fellow die.’ The truth. Seeing Trefor’s tiny puppy face buried in a wrinkly bundle of black, fluffy fur, Gray had been smitten from the outset. He’d been the runt and empathised.

‘That is very noble of you, my lord.’ The softness in her eyes which had been wholly and exclusively for his dog a few seconds before was now directed at him. Bizarrely, it made him feel taller. ‘Why did you name him Trefor?’

‘Because it reminded me of home.’ Good grief—more truth and one he had never shared. Gray blamed the hypnotic copper flecks in her eyes. Eyes that were coincidentally exactly the same shade as his dog’s—minus the alluring copper, of course. ‘I grew up in Wales. As a child I played on Trefor Beach.’ With Cecily. Always with Cecily. The girl who had lived next door. The deceitful, conniving love of his life who had brought about his youthful downfall. ‘I adored it.’ As he had adored her until she had shredded his heart and stomped all over the remains.

Cecily’s treachery aside, life had certainly been simpler then. Back when he was able to avoid his father because his mother kept Gray out of sight. The beach had been his mama’s favourite place and she had been his absolute favourite person. Certainly the only member of his immediate family who hadn’t found him wanting. ‘I haven’t been back there for years.’ Not since his mother had passed, in fact, and had left him feeling like a cuckoo in a nest with only his overbearing father and equally staid and pompous elder brother for company, regularly disappointing the both of them simply by breathing.

That was when everything in his life had started going downhill—but at least he’d still had Cecily. Still clung to her and all they would have one day, biting his tongue and trying to please his father. An endeavour which had been ultimately pointless in the grand scheme of things, when Gray had never wanted to join the army or the church as good second sons were supposed to do. From his earliest memories, all he had ever wanted to do was raise horses. As a child he had lived in the stables. He’d loved animals. Had a way with them.

He found himself frowning at the buried memory, wondering why it had chosen today of all days to pop into his mind. Routinely, he avoided the past as a point of principle. It couldn’t be changed, so why ponder it? Especially when the moment always held more promise. Or disaster. That wish for a farm filled with the finest horses he could breed was nothing more than all those carefully laid plans had been. A disappointing mirage of a future fate had never intended for him. One he would have loved if things had been different and a fine example of why he preferred now never to look too far ahead or too far behind. He had mourned the loss of that dream almost as much as he had Cecily.

Yet there was something about Suffolk which reminded him of home. Ridiculous, really, when home was more than two hundred miles away and nothing in the universe could ever tempt him to return there. He ruthlessly pushed the memories away, knowing the unwelcome spectre of his past would not help salvage this mission. ‘Please allow me to compensate you for the dress. It is the very least I can do.’

‘It’s only a bit of mud. Nothing that won’t come out in the wash. I have plenty of other dresses to wear this afternoon.’

‘For Mr Hargreaves?’ A faceless man Gray suddenly, and irrationally, disliked.

She smiled and his breath caught. She was pretty beforehand, in a classic English rose sort of way, but that smile did something miraculous to her features. It turned pretty into beautiful. Achingly, uniquely beautiful. ‘For my aunt’s tea party this afternoon.’

‘She has invited half the county,’ said Lady Crudgington with mock solemnity, ‘which in Thea’s world means less than twenty. Aside from being staid, the local society is also distressingly small. The tea will be nought but a hot, claustrophobic room full of dullards. Unbelievably tiresome.’ Lady Crudgington wound her arm through his, her eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘You should come, too, young man. Introduce yourself. Meet your other neighbours and see first-hand how dire they all are, while keeping me entertained with your scandalous maritime stories. Shouldn’t he, Thea? I shall happily vouch for his credentials.’

* * *

Her hair was an unmitigated disaster. So horrendous it had made its way on to her unwritten list of her Worst Hairstyles of All Time. Not quite as bad as the epically awful Fuzzy Chignon of Eighteen Nineteen, when the combination of cold winter rain and Colonel Purbeck’s stuffy drawing room had created a gargantuan tangle of fleece-like spirals that had soared towards the ceiling—but dangerously close. Thea had caught Mr Hargreaves staring, perplexed, at the top of her head three times in quick succession as he sipped his tea, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing either. Hair shouldn’t be vertical. Especially when it had enough pins in it to secure an elephant to the ground.

She resisted the urge to excuse herself to circulate among the other guests, knowing at best it was a flimsy excuse to wander past the mantel mirror and witness the mounting disaster for herself, as she had several times already. With every passing minute her wayward hair became even more wayward and the sight of it would only depress her. If she couldn’t fully tame her hair, how was she ever going to tame the streak of wayward selfishness that ran straight through her? The older she got, the harder it was becoming to behave when the urge hit and Impetuous Thea bubbled back to the surface.

She glanced at the door for the umpteenth time instead and tried to tell herself she was relieved that their new neighbour was not going to make an appearance. Another flimsy lie when she had spent most of the morning, all of luncheon and the entirety of Mr Hargreaves’ conversation thus far thinking about the way Lord Gray’s bronzed skin and intriguing muscles had looked, slicked with water.

Thea had never seen anything quite like it. Even as he had insisted on accompanying them to the boundary of the garden, the thin, wet shirt had been practically and gloriously translucent as he had chatted amiably about his dog and the navy and his utter wretchedness at what he had inadvertently done. When her eyes had begun guiltily wandering to his chest again, she had hung back to play with Trefor and been subjected to the equally enthralling sight of the damp linen clinging to his broad shoulders and back. Like her wayward hair, the wayward part of her character then refused to catch up, so it could feast on the sight for the rest of the way home—and feast it had. Thea was heartily ashamed of herself. Proper young ladies shouldn’t be ogling disgraceful scoundrels. Or worrying about the state of their hair for them either.

It would almost be a relief to see the man fully clothed. But then again, another part of her—the prim, proper, sensible part—never wanted to see him again, in the hope the memory of his body would quickly fade and her silly, flustered pulse would beat again at normal speed. Merely thinking about it all made her cheeks hot.

‘Can I fetch you some more tea, Mr Hargreaves?’ Which she would collect by way of the retiring room and dab mercilessly at those same cheeks with a cold flannel until they became decent.

‘You are most kind, Miss Cranford.’

As she took the saucer from him, she felt his fingers purposely brush against the back of her hand in an obviously flirtatious manner and immediately gritted her teeth. There was something about Mr Hargreaves and his blatant, ardent pursuit of her when her aunt wasn’t looking that raised her hackles, but ingrained politeness made it difficult to call him out on it in a room full of guests. Instead, Impetuous Thea broke free for a moment and she pretended to catch her slipper on her skirt. With more force than was necessary, she sent the cup flying, spilling the last dregs of the tea deliberately in his lap. ‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ She grabbed his napkin and passed it to him, enjoying the way the lukewarm stain quickly seeped into the pale kerseymere fabric. ‘Will you have to go home to change?’ She certainly hoped so.

‘Not at all, Miss Cranford. It is just a drip.’

As was he.

No matter how many times he pressed the match, Thea could not imagine an eternity shackled to him. A lifetime of spinsterhood would be more appealing—not that she was resigned to the shelf just yet. At three and twenty, she wouldn’t make a fresh-faced bride, but neither would she be a matron. As Aunt Caro frequently reassured her, there was still plenty of time to find the right sort of husband. Preferably one who regarded her with a heated look in his eyes, rather than her aunt, and wasn’t solely after her money.

He would be respectable and trustworthy, not a scoundrel. Noble in both thought and deed, and—and this part was not negotiable—in possession of enough of his own fortune that hers merely complemented it rather than supplemented it entirely. He didn’t need to be handsome and wear his breeches well. Both would be nice, of course, but they were in no way essential. Thea wasn’t Harriet, after all. No indeed. She enjoyed stability and discipline nowadays far more than the pleasing aesthetics of a broad pair of shoulders. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that. Since the soldier, she had vowed to be sensible and suppress the impetuous, wayward part of her nature that acted on impulse and got her into trouble. Because that same day, while being taken for a fool, she had also learned the hardest of lessons. Her selfish pursuit of forbidden fruit had consequences.

Dire ones.

After she had self-righteously stomped out of the house to dally with that soldier, the worst had happened and her poor uncle had paid the price. Just as her father had all those years previously when he had slammed out of the house, justifiably at his wits’ end with his precocious daughter, and had failed to come home alive. Common sense told her it was an unfortunate coincidence. That fate wasn’t punishing her for two isolated and immature outbursts, done in the heat of the moment many years apart, but she secretly carried the burden of guilt regardless. And while her rational, sensible brain often dismissed her fear as silly, superstitious nonsense, the similarities were too eerie to be coincidence. Two momentous temper tantrums brought about by her own selfish desire to do something quite contrary to the will of others and the two people closest to her heart had unfairly paid the price.

Since then, Impetuous Thea had been locked in a box just in case she was tempted by forbidden fruit again and was only rarely, and cautiously, given an airing when the situation warranted—and never to satisfy one of her own selfish whims.

It had proved to be a constant battle between her rebellious character and her stubborn will, but for the most part she kept a tight lid on the destructive elements of her personality. Since then, her world had been calmer. A trifle repetitive and safe, perhaps, but she was content. She had Harriet and her uncle. Aunt Caro and Bertie. She rode Archimedes. She visited the village and her neighbours. Occasionally allowed Harriet to drag her out to shop. Her world might be small, but she read voraciously, losing herself in exciting romances and adventures in the absence of any of her own. All worthwhile and proper pursuits for a gently bred young lady.

Heavens, even to her own ears she sounded dull. Three and twenty wasn’t old yet, although frequently she felt positively middle-aged. An older, staider, duller version of Harriet who had half as much fun. Nothing dreadful had happened for years despite Impetuous Thea’s constant escapes. She had argued with her uncle at least three times since that night and he was still as robust and full of life as he always was. Of course, without proper supervision, Impetuous Thea would have probably argued with him a thousand times in the last three years if she hadn’t practically chewed through her lip to stop the words coming and then silently seethed in her bedchamber for hours until she was calm again. Maybe it was all that suppressed emotion that was making her feel so unfulfilled?

Or maybe it was her increasing habit of dissatisfied introspection because there were simply too many hours in the day to fill with the proper pursuits she allowed herself. No wonder the disgraceful Lord Gray’s buttocks were taking up so much space in her thoughts. The sight of them had been the highlight of her year!

With an irritated sigh she wandered to the sideboard, conveniently located next to the door and blissful escape, and picked up the teapot. A maid could deliver the beverage back to Mr Hargreaves while Thea avoided him and his wandering hands for the rest of the afternoon.

Horrid man! While she was not averse to a suitor some day, and Lord only knew decent men were thin on the ground in this sleepy corner of Suffolk, she didn’t want one who fitted none of her sensible criteria or who made alarm bells clang in her mind.

Mr Hargreaves had a paltry annual allowance and a decidedly dubious past. He also shared heated looks with her aunt. Three very sound reasons to cross him off her list. The flesh-crawling bit made four, although that was more of a feeling than fact so hadn’t thus far made the list at all. Henceforth, it would be added. There had to be some attraction, or at least the potential for some eventually. As Harriet said, if one had to be bound to a man for all eternity, it was best he be easy on the eye.

Perhaps Harriet was right and she did need more excitement in her life before she settled down with the sensible, independently wealthy husband she would spend eternity with. Then perhaps her life wouldn’t feel so dull even if her choice of husband did. Each day did tend to feel exactly like the previous, blurring and merging into one homogenous infinity of sameness.

Infinity of sameness! Now she was in danger of becoming pretentious to counteract the dullness. Could one be a pretentious dullard? Mr Hargreaves certainly was...

‘Hello again, Miss Cranford.’

At the sound of his deep voice so close to her neck, Thea jumped and poured half of Mr Hargreaves’s tea over the sideboard. ‘Mr Gray... Er...my lord. I’m so sorry, you startled me.’ And despite the fine suit of clothes he wore with impressive aplomb, her errant mind had immediately stripped him of them. She knew exactly how impressive those shoulders were beneath that jacket, and she had seen his bottom. Valiantly, she willed her cheeks not to combust, yet they heated regardless just to spite her.

‘I’m an informal fellow—as you have unfortunately seen. Gray will do just fine.’ He was smiling. Amused. Little crinkles fanned out around his silvery blue eyes. Eyes which were almost wolf-like in their colour.

‘Gray suits you.’ Heavens—she had said that out loud. How frightfully impulsive and bold. Clearly, after her perfectly acceptable run-in with Mr Hargreaves, Impetuous Thea was not safely locked back in her box. She forced her gaze to shift from his hypnotic stare and came face to face with another man. Significantly older. Salt-and-pepper hair and a scowl that could curdle milk.

‘Allow me to introduce you to my second cousin Cedric.’ Gray grinned as the older man bristled. ‘He is a very formal man and prefers to be called Lord Fennimore at all times. Even by family.’

Chapter Three

The rampant disapproval at the use of his Christian name was coming off Lord Fennimore in waves, but Gray was unrepentant. The old man had insisted on accompanying him on this mission because Gray was apparently new to his precious King’s Elite. Two loyal and highly eventful, successful years chasing criminals wasn’t new in Gray’s book, but his commanding officer was a stick-in-the-mud who took for ever to impress. With Flint guarding his new bride and their key informant in their investigation in the wilds of Scotland somewhere, Warriner and Hadleigh minding the fort in London and Lord and Lady Millcroft on a similar mission in Norfolk, Lord Fennimore had reluctantly drafted Gray into front-line duty to prove his mettle, dangling the carrot of the yet undiscussed promotion temptingly in front of his face.

‘Let’s see how you do, young man, and then perhaps we shall talk.’

Hardly a blood-sworn promise, but the best anyone could hope for from the wily, manipulating, tenacious commander of the King’s Elite.

But it was that tenacity which had served them well. Espionage was a long and patient game. After two years of covert, dangerous investigations and far too many deaths, the King’s Elite had severely weakened the dangerous smuggling ring. Thanks to the new Baroness of Penmor, the French ringleader was dead, and his co-conspirators scattered in chaos. There was no longer a chance of them restoring Napoleon to power any time soon. However, despite having the names of the high-ranking British traitors who had sold the contraband on the black market, they still had no clue about the identity of The Boss—the elusive, faceless mastermind who had run the English side of the vast operation. So vast it had threatened the British economy as well as its security. The government wanted the traitors rounded up and tried as soon as possible, but without tangible proof of their guilt, all the evidence they had hinged on the testimony of one woman.

Or, in legal terms, and without further proof, hearsay.

They quickly realised they needed more than the word of just one witness if they were to make the charges stick. The Boss had no interest in Napoleon, or laws, or lives. He only cared about profit. Under Lord Fennimore’s guidance the King’s Elite had allowed the dust to settle, watched and waited. A man like The Boss would be ruthless in repairing all they had destroyed and they didn’t have to wait very long for the smugglers, suppliers and greedy distributors to begin to piece together some of the tattered remnants of the operation.

Already, more illegal brandy was trickling back on to British shores and, because they had been allowed to do so unhindered, the smugglers were becoming bolder.

The Boss didn’t know they knew. Nor did he know the net was closing in and they intended to catch him red-handed. The Boss also did not know they had narrowed down his true identity to one of two men. He was either the Earl of Winterton in Norfolk or Gray’s target—and the delicious redhead’s guardian—Viscount Gislingham. Whoever he was, he would soon be rotting in the Tower, awaiting his execution. And Gray knew he spoke for all his comrades—both living and recently dead—that that day couldn’t come soon enough. Too much blood had been spilled already.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Miss Cranford, but I thought it made sense to use your invitation to introduce the both of us to our new neighbours. Hopefully I shall make a better first impression on them than I did on you.’ Fennimore had practically spat feathers when Gray had confessed to being caught in the altogether by Gislingham’s niece. He had yet to appraise him of Trefor’s hand in practically drowning her. ‘Once again, allow me to offer my sincerest apologies.’

There were two pretty, pink circles on her cheeks at the reminder, but she held his gaze politely. ‘None are needed. Let us draw a veil over it.’

She blinked rapidly, luring his eyes to her ridiculously long, brown-tipped lashes before her hand fleetingly went to her riotous copper curls. She had beautiful hair. Unusual, but invitingly tactile. The obviously natural ringlets were not uniform. Tight spirals and loose curls wove together, begging to be touched and properly examined. If he pulled one, for instance, how much longer would it be? Double? Triple? Perhaps quadruple the length? In sunlight it crackled like fire. Wet, it deepened to auburn. Here in this bright drawing room it was vibrant, but the lack of direct light brought out the other tones. Bronze. Gold. The merest hint of chestnut. What would the pale moonlight do to it? He was staring at her head and she saw it. A little wrinkle of annoyance appeared between her russet brows, no doubt at his impertinence, before she quashed it.

‘Would you like me to introduce you to my uncle and aunt?’ Of their own accord, his eyes had now dropped to her lips. They were very kissable indeed. Soft, plump, a deeper shade of pink than the blush that stained her porcelain cheeks. Why couldn’t he stop gazing at her when he knew he needed to focus on being a better spy?

‘We would like that very much indeed, Miss Cranford.’ Lord Fennimore shot him a withering glance and inclined his head, giving away no indication as to exactly how much the pair of them were looking forward to meeting their potential nemesis. ‘You are most generous in forgiving my idiot cousin. Rest assured we have had words about the incident.’ His superior had said all the words, mostly in a very loud, agitated voice which had sent poor Trefor into hiding for hours. Unfortunately, they were all justified.

Lord Fennimore held out his arm and Miss Cranford took it, and for some inexplicable reason Gray felt a pang of jealousy. ‘Please lead the way.’

He suppressed the errant emotion and focused on the job in hand. At his best guess, there were twenty or so people in the room, all regarding them with interest. The fact they did nothing to disguise it was refreshing. In town, showing interest was one of the Seven Deadly Sins and everybody schooled their features to look bored. Provincial society was very different and one Gray was surprised to find himself comfortable within. Once upon a time he had loathed it, couldn’t wait to leave it and headed to the capital as soon as he was able. But it was actually rather nice to see what people were thinking for once. It made him oddly homesick.

Holding court on the striped damask sofa was an attractive woman of middle years wearing a fashionable day gown which must have cost more than a month’s worth of his salary. French lace and silk. You couldn’t spend your days catching smugglers and not recognise some of the spoils. She turned her head towards him, then smiled, her gaze flicking briefly to his reluctant new distant cousin, then sliding back to his. ‘Strangers? How exciting, Thea.’

‘Lord Fennimore. Lord Gray. This is my Aunt Caroline, Viscountess Gislingham. Aunt—these are our new neighbours, who have recently taken residence at Kirton House.’

As introductions went, it was very proper, yet he was convinced he detected some censure in her tone beneath all the politeness one would expect from a well brought-up young lady. A quick glance to his right and Miss Cranford’s features were quite bland as Lord Fennimore stepped forward to take the Viscountess’s hand.

‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. I hope you do not mind our unannounced arrival. We were keen to meet you all.’ He was almost as keen to meet the wife of The Boss as the man himself. Wives were rarely innocent, in his experience.

‘It is always a delight to make new friends, my lord.’ The Viscountess’s eyes slowly panned to Gray’s again and held, making him wonder if she was saying more than hello.

As the old man stepped back, Gray stepped forward and bowed. ‘You have a beautiful home, my lady.’

Her gloveless fingers grasped his. Squeezed softly. ‘Thank you. One you are always welcome in.’ A definite invitation. Unexpected, but interesting. Something which might come in useful for the mission. He felt the back of his neck prickle and was instantly suffused with guilt—even more unexpected, but there regardless. As he stepped back he tilted his head to investigate the source, despite already knowing in his bones it was she. Miss Cranford’s face was still bland, but her eyes were not. They were disappointed. Was she disappointed in her aunt or him? Ridiculously, he hoped it was the former.

‘I shall let Thea take you on the rounds to meet everyone and then you must come directly back to me.’ The Viscountess smiled at Lord Fennimore. That smile morphed into something entirely different by the time it reached Gray. She glanced up at him through her lashes, then the tone of her voice dipped ever so slightly as she lingered over the vowels. ‘I absolutely insist.’

It was a subtle invitation, purposefully ambiguous, yet to him—a man of the world who knew how the game was played—he was now left in no doubt. The Viscountess wanted to play. Something which should have excited him, because it gave the King’s Elite a way into the Viscount’s circle, but instead he found it distasteful because Lady Caroline was not her niece. More evidence of his lack of focus, no doubt, and time to be that better spy.

For the next few minutes, while his nostrils twitched at the alluring perfume Miss Cranford wore, they were introduced to the gentleman who seemed to hang on their hostess’s every word. The local solicitor, Mr Partridge. The second son of the Marquess of Allerton. A local landowner who dabbled in stocks. They were soon joined by the very Mr Hargreaves that Miss Cranford had apparently worried about her hair for earlier, although it took all of three seconds for Gray to work out the cut of his jib. All were much the same age as he was. Good-looking and knew it. All were cloyingly sycophantic and clearly all had enjoyed the Viscountess Gislingham’s exclusive company at least once, if he was any judge.

‘Follow me, gentlemen.’ Miss Cranford’s voice held a hint of snippiness as she brusquely turned, that sultry perfume wafting like a siren’s call to tempt him, and glided in the direction of a particular group of ladies, three of whom happened to be the wives of the men he suspected were the other woman’s lovers. Was that deliberate? If it was, was the point directed at him or her aunt? And why did he have the overwhelming urge to tell her she didn’t need to worry about him because he wasn’t attracted to her aunt in the slightest? Gray had to bite down on his lip to stop the words coming out, knowing they would be a lie. If he had to seduce the Viscountess for King and country, then he would. Regardless of the beautiful redhead’s disapproval and his peculiar, misplaced guilt.

What the blazes was the matter with him? He had waited two years for the chance to head up an important mission—he wouldn’t let his uncharacteristic reaction to a hitherto unknown woman stand in the way. It was probably the responsibility and the heat. Despite the lighter coat, he could still feel the back of his shirt sticking to him. Nerves and the hot July sun would do that to a man.

* * *

Thea found Harriet on the terrace soaking up the sun. Because the whole world believed a woman’s skin should be pale to be beautiful, her friend was determined to fly in the face of convention and was lounging with her head tilted back to capture every ray. Typically, like her rebellious streak, the healthy tan suited her. Thea wandered to the bench and plopped her bottom on to it, irritated. ‘You left me with Colonel Purbeck.’

‘Of course I did. The man spits when he talks.’

‘A true friend would have promptly rescued me.’

‘Ah...but I could see that Mr Hargreaves was eager to talk to you, so I knew you would be all right.’ Harriet cracked open one eye and then shuffled to sit upright when she saw Thea’s miserable expression. ‘I was only teasing about Mr Hargreaves. Aside from the breeches and his face, he has little else to recommend him.’

‘I know.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ She huffed out a sigh. Watching Lord Gray flirt with her aunt had left a sour taste in her mouth. Not that she was interested in him. If one ignored the fine face and impressive body, the man had too much of a mischievous glint in his unusual eyes for her to consider him as anything more than a pleasant conversation partner. Not that they had had a pleasant conversation. Thea had introduced him to everyone bar her uncle, who had slipped away for a nap, and then had delivered him eagerly back to Caro all in the space of ten minutes. Without all those tiresome introductions and her irritation at her aunt’s blatant interest in their new visitor, the errant yet persistent memory of him sans clothes made it difficult to think of anything remotely interesting or even banal to say and he seemed to have no desire to fill the void.

He had immediately come to life in front of her vivacious aunt, though, as soon as she had delivered him back. He had practically bent over backwards to charm her. Not that Thea coveted that sort of charming or approved of anyone who fell for the flirty façade her uncle’s slightly self-absorbed and highly strung wife presented to the world.

Still, being so blatantly overlooked rankled when she was obviously younger and single. And deep down she was thoroughly disappointed that the handsome new stranger no longer passed muster.

‘Do you think I’ve become dull?’

‘I despise dull people. We couldn’t be friends if you were the least bit dull.’ Harriet’s eyes dipped to where her hands fiddled idly with the fabric of her skirt. A sure sign she was tempering her response.

‘I sense a but...’

‘But you are a little too buttoned up nowadays, truth be told. Subdued. Too concerned with etiquette and behaviour and being proper and doing right by your uncle.’

‘Ladies are meant to behave with decorum.’ The impetuous part of her felt trapped by those rules, while the greater part feared what would happen without those boundaries. ‘Unlike you, I do not have the luxury of abandoning my good reputation. I still have to find a husband.’ Not that she had really been looking. All her suitors thus far had failed to exceed her low expectations and all were fixated on the money she came with. It had made her jaded. Understandably so.

‘I wasn’t suggesting you become a scandal, Thea. Merely that you let your hair down once in a while. You used to be so bold and spontaneous—I wish you’d let all those scintillating aspects of your character shine again rather than tempering them. You would have such fun! I want you to have some excitement in your life before you settle down—if you ever deign to allow a gentleman to get past your iron-clad defences, of course. Believe me, the years fly past so quickly and I would hate for you to regret your wasted youth. It worries me that you rarely leave your uncle’s grounds unless I drag you.’

‘You know that Uncle Edward is unwell.’ And her aunt abandoned the house for days on end visiting friends or shopping. Polite excuses for not wanting to be in her husband’s hostile or uninterested company. Their marriage had been strained before his illness and, despite her aunt’s utter despair at the thought of losing her husband in those grim days after his collapse, it was practically non-existent after. Both were always happier when at least ten miles of road separated them.

‘I also know dear Edward is as desperate to see you happy as I am. He’s repeatedly offered you a Season and I have repeatedly offered to be your chaperon in London—yet soon you will celebrate your twenty-fourth birthday and you haven’t set one foot out of Suffolk in for ever. I can barely get to you attend even the local assembly any more. What are you afraid of?’

She wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. Reluctant, more like. When one had the amount of money in the bank that she had, the vultures tended to circle. At least here, close to home, she knew all of them, had repelled most of them and didn’t have to waste valuable time trying to identify them as vultures in the first place. London was the great unknown, stuffed to the rafters with wholly unsuitable men who had no scruples and who would move heaven and earth to get their hands on her fortune. Winnowing out the wheat from the chaff did not appeal. Especially when Impetuous Thea had such poor taste in men.

‘I need to be close in case something happens.’ That was at least a reasonable excuse. With a sham for a marriage, no children and a largely absentee wife, Uncle Edward was alone. If Thea wasn’t there, then he would have nobody but his manservant, Bertie, to keep him company from one week to the next. She couldn’t allow him to live like that. Not when he had taken her in after she had been orphaned, loved her unconditionally and been both mother and father to her for over half of her life.

So much so, he had transferred the bulk of his unentailed fortune to her while she had still been a child. Tens of thousands of pounds, cannily invested, continually multiplying and held in trust until she had reached her majority. He still managed her fortune for her and every year it grew bigger still, ever multiplying like the venomous heads of the mythical Hydra and twice as frightening. Not that she would admit such a thing to anyone, least of all her beloved uncle. He had gifted her a lifetime of financial independence and had never asked for anything in return. It seemed horribly ungrateful to loathe the generous gift he had saddled her with.

‘Very noble—but exactly how many more years are you prepared to wait for the worst to happen? It has already been three.’ Which coincidentally was the last time she and her uncle had really argued, when Thea had defied him to sneak out of the house past midnight to kiss the handsome officer who she had met at the assembly rooms the week before. With hindsight her uncle had been entirely correct in his censure. The man had been too old, too worldly and wholly focused on her fortune. He was taking flagrant advantage of her youth, her rebellious nature and her inexperience to further his own ends.

Unfortunately, at the time she had been too outraged at being forbidden to see him and too wilful to accept the edict. While Impetuous Thea was out, the worst had happened. If Bertie hadn’t been there to save him, her uncle would now be as dead as her father.

‘Edward’s condition has neither deteriorated nor improved. You need to face facts, Thea. While you sit around waiting, being the overly dutiful niece and the devoted daughter Edward never had, your own life is passing you by. Mr Hargreaves notwithstanding, you could be married already, living close by and still being the dutiful niece who visits daily, yet you have thwarted every potential suitor who has shown an interest.’

‘None of them was suitable. They all just wanted my money.’ She didn’t want to end up shackled to a vulture. ‘With great wealth comes great responsibility. I have to be sure I entrust it to someone worthy.’

‘Or perhaps your exacting standards are too high on purpose? You are the most suspicious person I know.’

That stung. ‘I’m an heiress! I have to be suspicious! Every fortune hunter, ne’er-do-well and chancer who ventures into Suffolk automatically seeks me out and plights his troth, keen to get his greedy hands on all that money. I have to be cautious.’

‘Cautious, yes. Not overcautious and determined to denounce them all as villains. Lord Selwyn, for instance, didn’t turn out to be a swindler as you suspected.’

‘But he was a fortune hunter.’

‘And Mr Taylor, the young widower, was in fact a widower and not a bigamist either.’

Thea threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘Yet he was in debt up to his eyeballs and hopelessly in love with my fortune, too.’

‘Yes, granted, both saw the money before you, but Captain Fairway had his own fortune.’

‘And three illegitimate children by two separate mistresses. I knew he was a philanderer!’

‘There is always something wrong with them—fortune hunter, philanderer, scoundrel...what was the name of the chap you thought was a highwayman?’

‘Chisholm Hunter? I’m still not entirely convinced that he wasn’t. There was something very shifty about that man.’

Harriet glanced heavenwards and briefly closed her eyes before continuing in an uncharacteristically measured tone. ‘Your overly suspicious nature has given you an imagination as vivid as your hair, darling. In the absence of any real reasons to discount them you now have a tendency to make things up.’

‘You think I should have settled? For a man I have no faith in nor any true affection for? Leap first into marriage without any forethought or rigorous contemplation? Like my uncle did with Aunt Caro? Look how miserable that hasty decision has made them! Might I remind you, you also found fault with all those gentlemen, too, as I recall.’

Harriet rolled her eyes again. ‘Only because you continually hammered home their faults and I am a good friend and want to please you. However, while you continue to repel each and every gentleman who glances your way, the clock is ticking. In two more years you’ll be well on the way to being considered an old maid. And I don’t want you to leap into marriage. I want you to risk the leap of faith. It’s the most splendid feeling in the world, darling. You stand on the precipice, not ever truly knowing what is the right course of action, but you take that chance. You abandon your fears and leap.’ She sighed romantically. ‘I adore leaping. It’s the ultimate grand gesture. The test of true love is the grand gesture.’

‘So I should abandon all hope of finding a decent, upstanding, genuine man to love, and simply settle?’

‘Leaping isn’t settling, darling. It’s throwing caution to the wind and trusting your instincts and laying yourself bare in front of another in the hope they feel the same. But if you are seeking absolute perfection inside and out before you dare to jump, which I am coming to suspect you are, then you are doomed. It doesn’t exist. Nor should you use your aunt and uncle’s marriage as the benchmark to justify your exacting standards—or your fortune as a barricade to hide behind. Your uncle would never have given it to you if he’d had any inkling you would use it to shut yourself off. He despairs of your stand-offishness as much as I do.

‘Every human has flaws, but unless you allow yourself to properly get to know a gentleman, warts and all...and he, you...and cease being instantly suspicious or stand-offish, you will never come to know if they are minor flaws you can live with or major ones which will make you want to grind their face under your heel when they dare to say good morning. If you want to fall in love and be loved in return, then you have to give it a fighting chance to blossom. Nothing blooms in the desert. You have to take that gloriously abandoned leap of faith. Your greatest flaw is that you dismiss people out of hand instantly.’

‘I do not.’ Surely she wasn’t that pernickety? ‘I judge every man on his merit and give them all adequate time to show it. A little cautious suspicion gives them the opportunity to prove their mettle.’

‘Adequate time to prove their mettle? Really? Then I assume you are prepared to give our new neighbour a proper chance? Youngish. Handsome. Solicitous and local. His appearance is very fortuitous, seeing as you have given up all hope of any of the other bachelors in the county meeting your high expectations. Perhaps he is the one? He seems...’ Harriet grinned ‘...quite lovely.’

It was Thea’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘And typically, you judge a book solely by its cover.’

‘Not at all! While I’ll grant you he has a splendid cover, he was most pleasant after we caught him so magnificently naked—and his dog clearly adores him. We humans could learn a lot from dogs. Animals are rarely wrong.’

‘He’s a shameless flirt.’

‘I didn’t see him flirt.’

‘Well, I can assure you, he was certainly shamelessly flirting with Aunt Caro a few moments ago.’ Something which bothered her, despite her infinitely better judgement and professed lack of interest.

‘He’s here?’

‘Indeed he is. With his frowning cousin in tow.’

Harriet was up like a shot. ‘How positively splendid! Let’s hunt him down and monopolise him. I’ll dutifully extol your virtues like a good friend and you can probe with pertinent questions which matter to you. Start to get to know him... Why, we don’t even know if he is married or betrothed! And a young man who voluntarily lives with an older relative would naturally be more sympathetic to your dutiful attachment to your uncle. How serendipitous is that? The fates appear to be miraculously aligned for once.’

This needed to be nipped in the bud. Especially as Harriet was beginning to sound reasonable. ‘No, thank you. He doesn’t interest me in the slightest. Nor I him. He made no effort to impress me, yet every effort to charm my aunt.’ A lie; he had tried then lapsed into silence after she had been stand-offish because Impetuous Thea had been interested. ‘I’m afraid I have his measure already—and he comes up woefully short. If I’m being brutally frank, I’m not even sure I like him.’ Although she had, before she reminded herself of all the reasons why she couldn’t entertain it. She still had a penchant for parts of him.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Until you mentioned him, I had forgotten he existed.’ She held Harriet’s gaze, determinedly ignoring the image of Lord Gray’s pert, bare buttocks and broad, bare back which had apparently seared itself on to her mind.

‘Hmm...’ Harriet looked sceptical, then shrugged. ‘Only I cannot recall a time when I have ever heard you sound so waspish over a mere man after such a short acquaintance.’

‘That’s because it’s his fault my hair looks like this!’ Thea petulantly pointed at her head, but she was already talking to her friend’s retreating back. ‘It might have been a short acquaintance, but it was certainly eventful. Cavorting in the brook in his birthday suit was disgraceful!’ And thrilling. It had been quite the highlight of her dull year. Drat it all to hell.

‘All I ask is that you give the fellow a fighting chance, Thea! This might be exactly what the doctor ordered!’ Harriet stopped, spun and inhaled deeply. ‘I can positively smell the romance in the air.’ Then she was off again, striding with such purpose there was no point attempting to reason with her. There was nothing Harriet loved more than meddling. Especially in what she considered was for a person’s own good. As a mark of protest, sensible Restrained Thea remained exactly where she was and would remain so for the foreseeable future despite the baking sun.

Chapter Four

Gray spent the better part of an hour with the Viscountess, being a very good spy, and learned nothing new whatsoever. She was amiable, if a little self-absorbed, her conversation mostly a ploy to receive a compliment. It was obvious she lived a small and inconsequential life. There was a brittleness about her, a need to be adored, which was quite sad for a woman her age and said a great deal about the state of her marriage. Gislingham himself had yet to make an appearance and his wife didn’t seem to know or care if he was likely to. Clearly, they lived completely separate lives, which meant she was unlikely to know anything significant about her husband’s nefarious business dealings. With Lord Fennimore the unwilling captive of the droning Colonel Purbeck and the deliciously smelling Miss Cranford mysteriously missing from the gathering, he found himself eager to move on as he extricated himself from the sofa.

If nothing else, he could have a little snoop around. This rose-covered mansion in the heart of the countryside, a good forty miles from the coast, didn’t appear to be the likely lair of England’s most wanted smuggler. Nor did the aged servants seem to be his criminal accomplices—but appearances could be deceptive. Look at Lord Fennimore. To all intents and purposes the world thought him a crusty old peer. One who turned up diligently at Parliament to vote and was a reliably reluctant guest at society events—yet for over twenty years had managed to hide the fact he ran the King’s Elite. Not that anyone in society circles or outside of it would know about that organisation either. Therefore, where better to hide than here? Who would suspect a respected country squire of high treason? In another life, he certainly wouldn’t.

Of course, in that other life he had no ambition either, other than to embrace whatever whims or pathways he took a fancy to and that had crept up on him unannounced. One minute he had been at a loose end on the cusp of leaving the merchant navy, the next he had accidentally fallen into working for the King’s Elite. Up until then, he had had no concept of possessing either the valuable skills necessary for covert espionage or the burning desire to see justice done. Yet because of things he had seen and his nagging conscience, he had approached the Excise Men with suspicions about the particular shipping company he happened to be working for at the time and inadvertently soon found himself spying on them.

After the resounding success of that first mission, Lord Fennimore simply assumed he would continue and Gray hadn’t corrected his assumption. For the last two years he had been working beneath Seb Leatham in the Invisibles, blending into the background, pretending to be someone else. Learning the trade and loving it. With Seb now working in a wholly different way alongside his new wife, Gray wanted more than anything to step into his friend’s shoes, knowing they would be the perfect fit. After an aimless life of searching for nothing in particular beyond what was happening in the moment, he had finally found his place.

If only he could convince old Fennimore.

For the umpteenth time he huffed out an irritated breath at this morning’s incident. His thoughtless lack of propriety had not helped his cause, but at least it had got him here, thanks largely to Lady Crudgington. Miss Cranford had seemed horrified to see him and had introduced him around the room most begrudgingly. He had made a much better impression on the Viscountess, although prudence dictated he be cautious with her. She liked male company. More than liked it, if his suspicions were correct, which made aligning himself too closely problematic. If Gislingham was the jealous type, Gray risked alienating him. The first priority had to be getting closer to their chief suspect. Only once all hope of that was dead could he risk a dalliance with the wife to get what he wanted. Or the ward.

Miss Cranford was entirely off limits until he understood the lay of the land. For the sake of the mission, she had to be his last resort even though she was the family member he was most drawn to. As much as he was tempted to shamelessly flirt with her and was wildly curious to know whether her vibrant blushes ended just below her demure neckline or travelled all the way down those shapely legs to her toes, seducing a gently bred young woman tended not to go down well with protective male relatives with a cruel streak a mile wide. Doing so would not only alienate Gislingham, it would probably result in getting Gray killed.

He could pretend to properly court her, he supposed.

The errant thought caught him unawares. Not because he wasn’t supremely confident in his abilities to thoroughly charm her, more because it terrified him to have even thought of it. He had willingly come within a hair’s breadth of marriage once before and had ended up broken-hearted and deceived. From the tender age of ten he’d had his future with Cecily mapped out. They were going to wed as soon as he turned twenty-one when he finally gained his financial independence; they would buy a nice house near their favourite beach in Wales and raise fine horses and the best Welsh lamb alongside their bushel of children.

Then his father and hers had brokered a different deal, one Cecily had been given a choice in, and to Gray’s horror the love of his life decided she would much rather be a wealthier marchioness wedded to his elder brother than live on that farm with him. It had been that same week that the walls of Jericho had come tumbling down. Blind with grief and convinced she would change her mind if only he could quickly enlarge his fortune to supersede his pompous brother’s, Gray had taken every penny of the money his grandfather had left him in his will to London and the hells where the savvy owners, gamblers and card sharps had quickly relieved him of it. It had been the harshest way to learn his lesson—daring to dream was as pointless as regret, and risking your heart was for tougher men than him.

He now avoided all serious overtures of intent, even if the serious overtures would be just a ruse to infiltrate Gislingham’s confidence. He couldn’t bring himself to toy with another person’s feelings as Cecily had done his. Heartbreak, it turned out, took for ever to get over. He avoided touching hearts with the same diligence that he avoided commitment and he wouldn’t trifle with Miss Cranford’s no matter how much his body wanted her.

Assuming she would be interested, of course. Which she didn’t appear to be in the slightest. She had barely said three words to him between all those polite introductions, so he had given up trying. Probably because he didn’t have Trefor with him. She had adored Trefor... Good grief! Another pointless train of thought in the grand scheme of things. He needed to be a better spy, not jealous of his dog.

He rounded the shrubbery and stopped dead. The object of his musings was lying flat on her back on a stone bench, a gauzy shawl draped over her face like a shroud leaving her fiery copper hair to crackle in the sunshine. One hand rested gently on her belly while the other was thrown over her head. The artful pose, reminiscent of one of the epic tableaux of the Renaissance where some ancient Greek heroine had been cut down tragically in her prime, was doing wonders for her bosom. Her covered face allowed him to gaze longingly at it for a few moments as her chest gently rose and fell with her breathing in her splendid, fitted coral gown. Bizarrely, despite that unexpected bonus, he missed seeing her smile. That stunning smile combined with her current alluring position would be quite something to witness.

A sensible, dedicated spy would silently retrace his steps and take another route to continue his unhindered reconnoitre. But for some reason, his feet had already decided to head towards her as if pulled by some invisible cord. He was halfway across the lawn when he realised she wasn’t asleep, in fact, and much to his amusement, she was talking to herself.

‘Give him a fighting chance, darling.’ If he was not mistaken, she was snippily mimicking Lady Crudgington. ‘You are a little too buttoned up.’ The hand that had been on her belly wafted in the air. ‘I cannot recall a time when I have ever heard you sound so waspish over a mere man, Thea.’ Gray suppressed the spontaneous snort which threatened to erupt as she blew a raspberry so fat the floaty shawl quivered. ‘Settle for a wholly unsuitable man before you become so decrepit and wizened no one will ever fancy you and to hell with the consequences. Your exacting standards are far too high and your imagination is as vivid as your wayward, vertical hair. And while you’re about it, become a total scandal, why don’t you? Throw yourself at the fellow. Stand on the precipice and leap! The clock is ticking after all. Tick-tock, Thea. Tick-tock.’

He did laugh at the second raspberry, making her sit bolt upright, the delicate shawl slipping to puddle at her feet and her lush mouth a delightful O of embarrassed outrage. ‘How long have you been there!’

‘Long enough to know that Lady Crudgington thinks you should give Mr Hargreaves a fighting chance, but that you are not so enthused by the idea.’

She was simultaneously blinking and blushing furiously. ‘Yes... Mr Hargreaves...indeed...and you are correct. I am not at all enthused by the idea.’ Primly, she straightened and adjusted her clothing. ‘If anything, I am thoroughly unenthused.’

‘I’m exceedingly glad to hear it. Having had to listen to him for the last half an hour, I found his conversation quite...’

‘Sycophantic? Insincere? Grinding?’

He smiled at her accurate assessment. It was refreshing she didn’t mince her words. ‘Yes. To all. You can do much better than him.’

She beamed again as she had this morning and the sight of it did odd things to his heart. ‘Thank you, Lord Gray! That is exactly what I keep telling Harriet, but she is determined to meddle.’

‘Well, I dare say the meddling is necessary. You are on the cusp of decrepit.’

‘You heard everything, didn’t you?’ The blush on her cheeks mirrored the deeper one staining her collarbone and disappearing beneath the lace edging her close-cut bodice. ‘It’s very rude to eavesdrop.’

‘Surely eavesdropping involves listening to an obviously private conversation between two or more people. As you were loudly talking to yourself, out in broad daylight, I didn’t think it counted. It gave me a very interesting insight into the young lady you are beneath that impenetrable exterior.’ She looked attractively flummoxed and guilty at his assessment, which was very intriguing. ‘Besides, like you, I sensibly came out here to hide and get some fresh air, so the eavesdropping was merely an unanticipated bonus. How could I resist it?’

‘For a big man, you move with impressive stealth. Was it your intention to sneak up on me?’

‘You credit me with too much talent, Miss Cranford. All I did was walk across the grass. If you hadn’t been talking so much, you would have heard me. Do you mind if I sit—or is that grossly improper? If it is, I can hide somewhere else.’

She hesitated, then wrapped the filmy shawl around her shoulders, her jaw set and her eyes riveted on a distant spot across the lawn, feigning complete indifference politely. ‘We are in view of the house and Harriet will be back presently.’ Gray decided to take that as acceptance and sat on the opposite end of the seat to her.

‘Why are you hiding? When I left you, you seemed to be having a high old time. My aunt appeared most enamoured of your charm.’ He detected the hint of disapproval and decided to pry. These little rifts and obvious censures, leaked in confidence, proved time and time again to be fertile hunting grounds for spies.

‘Your aunt obviously enjoys socialising.’ A very delicate way of saying the woman basked in the glory of being the centre of attention, particularly when surrounded by a bevy of eager, much younger gentlemen.

‘She does. More so than my uncle, so he indulges her.’

‘I was hoping to meet your uncle before I outstayed my welcome. Will he be rejoining the party later?’

Her dark eyes clouded as they stared straight ahead. ‘My uncle’s health is not good, my lord, and hasn’t been for several years. He managed much of the first hour, but prolonged socialising does take its toll on him. He needs his rest and sleeps like the dead most afternoons. I do not expect Uncle Edward will make another appearance today, I’m afraid. You shall have to meet him another time.’

He could tell by the worried look in her eyes she believed this to be the case and felt a rush of anger towards the man for his duplicity. Poor health was a convenient and ready excuse to disappear to do his dirty work. He’d wager every hard-earned coin in his purse that Gislingham was currently up to no good somewhere on this estate—or elsewhere—while his niece worried over him unnecessarily. ‘That is a shame. Perhaps my cousin and I would do better to call upon him in the morning?’ Before he left today, he needed to do a thorough reconnaissance of the grounds and as much of the bottom floor as he dare. His gut told him Gislingham ran his operation from this house and Gray needed to know exactly where.

‘He is at his best in the mornings and enjoys small, intimate company. I know he is keen to meet you—especially as Harriet has already apprised him of this morning’s unfortunate events.’

That didn’t sound good. ‘Should I expect a thorough telling off when I come calling?’

‘Not at all. Uncle Edward has a very warped sense of humour and found the state of me upon my arrival home hilarious. I fear Harriet brings out the worst in him.’ Gray sincerely doubted that. He had lost many comrades thanks to The Boss at his worst.

‘Lady Crudgington is indeed a force of nature.’

‘And very curious. She left me determined to give you a thorough grilling.’

‘I suspected as much. But she was distracted by a fruit scone and clotted cream on the sideboard, so I managed to escape her clutches before I crept out. I can only cope with so much heat from the drawing room...and Mr Hargreaves.’ Gray might as well take advantage of her dislike for the man. ‘He brays when he laughs.’

The ghost of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. ‘Colonel Purbeck spits when he talks.’

‘Hence I stumbled across you shrouded like a widow.’

‘I’m sorry about that. It was most improper.’

‘Propriety is hardly a field it would be fair for me to judge you on and, anyway, it is vastly overrated. Don’t you think?’

Her fingers played with the dangling edges of the shawl as she glanced up at the cloudless sky and, inadvertently giving him more clues as to her character, she avoided answering his question. ‘Alas, I adore the sun, but it doesn’t adore me. With my fair skin, I burn easily, so I have to ration it. Hence the shroud.’

‘Then perhaps I should escort you back inside. The afternoon sun is always the worst.’

* * *

Prudence dictated that she should grasp the opportunity to escape inside seeing as he had offered it. It wasn’t proper for an unmarried lady to be in such a secluded place in the presence of a gentleman without a chaperon and she knew Harriet had no intention of coming back outside and wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near the garden if she suspected Thea was alone in it with Lord Gray. But her friend’s criticisms rankled and as much as Thea wanted to discount everything she had said, there was a great deal of truth in her words. She was becoming unacceptably jaded and had an ever-increasing suspicion of the motives of others. Since the smooth-talking soldier that dreadful night, she did make snap decisions about men and she did push them away. The fear of Impetuous Thea falling for a money-grabbing bounder, the huge responsibility of the unwieldy fortune her uncle had amassed on her behalf and the sense of responsibility and love she had for him had made her reluctant to consider anyone seriously.

To her shame, that reluctance had made her unacceptably stand-offish to the point where she risked never finding a decent man, and that simply wouldn’t do. Because one day when the time was right and the gentleman perfect, she did want to live happily ever after. She wanted to be loved and adored. Wanted to love and adore back. Wanted to fill her home with the happy sound of children laughing, the closeness of family and the promise of a future she could look forward to. Uncle Edward had insisted she have financial independence so that she could marry the man of her dreams without having to compromise as he had done. True love, he often waxed after a bit too much brandy, was the greatest joy in the world and worth all the hideous turmoil in the long run.

Somehow, while waiting patiently for true love to come, she had allowed those alarm bells to start clanging well before she got to know a gentleman, which made a lifetime of spinsterhood a foregone conclusion. If she had created the vicious circle, she could jolly well unmake it.

‘I suppose I can tolerate a little more sun.’ In a concerted effort not to be stand-offish and judgemental, she would be cordial and properly get to know this handsome new gentleman beyond his compelling, wolf-like eyes and splendid physique. Harriet was right. Aside from the fact he was local, he did live with an older relative as well, so might understand her situation. He was the first gentleman she had met in for ever who had not actively sought her out to begin with. They had met wholly by chance without the allure of her impressive bank balance, so perhaps she should give fate a fair crack at the whip before she wielded the repelling Shield of Suspicion. ‘Tell me something about yourself, Lord Gray.’

She could tell she had surprised him because his dark brows momentarily drew together. ‘What would you like to know?’

‘I suppose it makes sense to start at the beginning. Where did you grow up? Who are your family?’

‘Very close to the mountains of Snowdonia. My father was the Marquess of Talysarn.’

‘Was?’

‘He died a few years ago while I was at sea. My elder brother now holds the title.’

‘How sad. You missed the funeral?’

His face clouded and he paused before he answered. ‘Yes.’

‘Is your mother still alive?’

‘Alas, my mother died many years before. She was a lovely woman. I miss her greatly. You lost your parents young also, I believe?’

‘I have no memories of my mother. She died when I was a babe.’ Although Thea still missed her, wondering what her life and her character might have been like if she had grown up with a woman’s guidance. Probably less wilful and impetuous.

‘My father was a don at Cambridge. He taught mathematics and is still widely regarded in that field.’ Which was probably why he never quite understood his daughter. Thea had no head for figures and the only thing they had had in common was a boisterous sense of humour and their twin fiery tempers. ‘Did you go to Cambridge or Oxford?’

‘No... I went abroad.’

‘To study?’

‘After a fashion. I’m not much of a scholar, I’m afraid. I certainly have no head for numbers.’

‘Me either.’ They had something in common. Something deathly dull and inconsequential in common. ‘Aside from swimming scandalously naked with your dog, what do you enjoy?’ Why had she said that? Instantly her cheeks heated while she wrestled Impetuous Thea back into her box.

He shot her a sideways glance and chuckled, the deep sound warming her in places that had no right being warmed. ‘I thought we had drawn a veil over that. Or is the memory too awful for your tender sensibilities to forgive and forget?’ He was flirting. Despite refusing to meet his eye she could hear it in his voice, but she was already blushing and doubtless he could see it. What had made her bring it up again? He would think she couldn’t stop thinking about it, which was, of course, mortifyingly true. Aside from the memory of him naked, the wayward, wilful part of her nature was seriously considering swimming naked in the brook, too. It was ridiculously hot—even for July...

As if he could read her mind, he stared knowingly at her, the wretch. Better to acknowledge the discomfort head on and then brush it blithely aside. She was almost twenty-four, for goodness’ sake. Ladies of that age were expected to be a bit more worldly, no matter how well bred and proper they were.

‘I have forgotten it.’ Liar. ‘As much as one can forget such an outrageous anomaly so early in the day, especially as the day is nowhere near over yet and here you are again—being exactly where you shouldn’t be and encroaching on my privacy. Thankfully, it was a brief encounter, so therefore unlikely to make a lasting impression on my tender sensibilities. I am hopeful it will be nought but a distant memory by tomorrow.’ Gracious! Her true tartness had materialised out of nowhere when she had intended to be nothing but polite. Clearly she needed a much stronger padlock on the box around Lord Gray.

‘That is good to know. Nothing makes a man happier than knowing he is quickly forgettable. Especially when all his credentials have been laid bare for scrutiny. I shall sleep soundly tonight, secure in the knowledge the spectre of my bottom will not be encroaching on your dreams.’

It was funny that she could hear his smile. Funnier still that her own mouth was curving upwards, too, when this entire conversation was outrageous. Gloriously so. Not being immediately suspicious was liberating. ‘So shall I. For they would hardly be dreams, Lord Gray. I fear if your bottom scandalously encroached, surely, they would be nightmares at the very least. When one is as decrepit as I, one needs one’s beauty sleep.’ She was flirting! When she never flirted any more in case it gave untrustworthy men the wrong impression. This man clearly brought out the worst in her and she hardly knew him.

‘If you got any more sleep, you’d be dangerous.’

‘Although I should warn you, I doubt Harriet and my uncle will allow me to forget the incident completely until they have fully had their fun at my expense...’ Had he just paid her a compliment? Thea gave up staring off into the distance and risked flicking him a glance. He was sat staring cockily right back at her. Utterly gorgeous, the seams of his coat straining slightly against the muscles of his folded arms, those unusual blue-grey eyes twinkling with mischief. Her heart did a little stutter at the sight. That and his scandalously pretty comment, which the sensible part of her cautioned was probably best ignored. Reacting would only encourage him, making him think she was interested, and she certainly didn’t want that. Just in case he was a bounder in wolf’s clothing. ‘Kindly repeat what you just said.’ So much for ignorance and disinterest. Impetuous, easily seduced Thea was loose and running roughshod all over the terrace.

‘I said, if you got any more sleep, you’d be dangerous. Obvious decrepitude aside, you are quite beautiful enough already, Miss Cranford. I’m not entirely sure I could cope with any more. I find myself already totally smitten with you.’

Internally she was sighing and was in grave danger of melting into a puddle at the man’s feet. He thought her beautiful. Was already smitten... How lovely. Of course, outwardly, she hoped she looked unimpressed because she was far too sensible to be waylaid by flowery words any more—no matter how lovely Impetuous Thea thought they were to hear. ‘Oh, my!’ She fluttered her hand in front of her face and batted her eyelashes. ‘What a swoon-worthy compliment! If only I hadn’t seen you similarly flirting with my aunt a short while ago, I’d be tempted to be flattered.’

‘There is a distinct difference. Your aunt flirted with me first and it would have been rude not to respond in kind. That was merely social flirting, Miss Cranford, and therefore innocuous. My flirting with you was wholly unsolicited and wholly spontaneous. It was genuine flirting.’ The arrogant grin suited him and Thea found herself enjoying it.

‘Ah—I see.’ She tapped her lip and attempted to look thoughtful, enjoying this unexpected sparring match with a man who met none of her strict criteria, but seemed to be able to pick the locks that bound the chains around the inner Thea’s locked box. ‘So if social flirting is innocuous, does that make genuine flirting noxious?’

‘It makes it dangerous. Especially when both of us engage in it as we are now. It hints at intent.’ He raised his dark eyebrow. ‘At promise...’

Instinctively, she folded her own arms, mirroring his casual pose. ‘I hardly think I am flirting, Lord Gray.’

‘Gray will do just fine. And you are most definitely flirting, Miss Cranford. I’m afraid I recognise all of the signs.’

‘Really? Pray enlighten me, for I confess I am at a loss.’

He shuffled closer on the bench and leaned in conspiratorially, smelling sinfully of sunshine and spicy cologne. ‘To the unobservant, it would be difficult to tell, but there are subtle clues. Your insistence on reminding me of this morning, for example. Unconsciously, despite all my very proper clothes, your mind is scandalously picturing me naked.’

She scoffed, bristling, wondering if he really could read her mind. ‘I most certainly am not! Ewwwgh!’ She shuddered for effect. ‘I can assure you my brain has far better things to think about than the unsavoury picture of you in the altogether, although even if I was, which I most definitely am not, a person’s private thoughts hardly constitute flirting.’

‘The coquettish side glances and pretty pink blushes which accompany them does.’

Thea turned her head and stared him dead in the eye. ‘I’m a redhead and if I am a bit pink, then I have clearly been in the sun a tad too long, my lord.’

‘A plausible denial, to be sure—but it doesn’t fool me. And I thought we agreed you could call me Gray going forward, seeing as you’ve seen me in the altogether? But...your preoccupations with my impressive, manly nude body aside, there are other damning clues which only a true connoisseur in the subtle art of flirting would pick up. A moment ago, for instance, when you brought your finger to your lips... Why, it was obvious you were doing so to purposely draw my eyes there and set me wondering if they are as soft and inviting as they look.’

She had touched her lips quite innocently, or so she had thought, but now they tingled. ‘You are delusional.’

‘Right now, we both know the position of your arms has only one true purpose.’

She didn’t unfold them. ‘To show you I am not a fool, nor suffer fools gladly?’

‘To display your figure to its best effect.’ She hastily uncrossed her arms and gathered the shawl tighter, irritated at the missish response when he reacted with a knowing chuckle. ‘And...’ The word came out in a sultry whisper as his head leaned closer still before he paused and failed to finish his sentence.

‘And?’

‘That was a test and, I’m sorry to tell you, you failed.’

‘I did?’

‘Indeed. Because you leaned closer, too, obviously eager to hear what I had to say despite my intimate, wholly inappropriate conversation and my close proximity to your unchaperoned person being most impertinent.’

‘You are impertinent.’

‘I am—but you’d like to kiss me regardless.’

She would—which came as a huge, unwelcome shock—but she most certainly wouldn’t.

Ever.

On principle.

‘Oh, Lord Gray, you are labouring under the most fanciful of misapprehensions.’ With purposeful, indifferent, possibly flirtatious slowness, Thea stood and shook her head pityingly. ‘Perhaps it is you who needs to be mindful of the sun’s rays and ration them going forward, for today they have clearly addled your mind.’

Chapter Five

‘Did you have to bring that dog?’ Lord Fennimore glared at Trefor’s rapidly wagging tail and grimaced.

‘Miss Cranford was very taken with him. I reasoned his presence would only help our cause.’

‘They won’t let him in the house.’

‘He will be perfectly content tied up outside for the duration of our visit. He loves to sleep in the sun.’ Unbidden, images of Miss Cranford lying in the garden instantly sprung to mind and he found himself smiling. Granted, flirting with her yesterday might well have been foolhardy and counterproductive to their mission—undeniably his superior would castigate him for the misdemeanour if he knew and a truly sensible spy would have avoided it—but Gray had enjoyed it immensely. She was tart, sharp and tasty. A glorious, intelligent and feisty armful and he would not regret the overwhelming, yet too-brief indulgence in the slightest. In that moment, it had felt right and life was too short for regrets. ‘Besides, as we are posing as country gentlemen, he gives us an air of the authentic. What says Suffolk more than two robust fellows striding across the fields with their faithful hound in tow?’

‘We could have ridden instead. It would have been a darn sight quicker than constantly stopping and waiting for that dog to continually sniff the air.’

‘Trefor is rusticating. Which is what we are supposed to be doing.’

They turned on to the Viscount’s short drive, both lapsing into silence as they mentally prepared themselves for the task in hand. Again last night they had meticulously gone over their backstory. Lord Fennimore was still convinced the closer Gray stuck to the truth of his past, the more chance he had of manoeuvring himself into Gislingham’s inner circle. With the Viscount’s extensive web of criminal contacts, it would be simple to make enquiries and the truth would be swiftly and categorically confirmed. Lord Graham Chadwick was a ne’er-do-well of the first order and had been since birth. He had lost his twenty thousand-pound inheritance at the gaming tables in just three short months. He had been understandably disowned by his only brother and his father, the upright and blemish-free Marquess of Talysarn, and then disappeared off to sea when he had worn out his welcome and his line of credit in the capital. After that, nobody really knew what had happened to the lad...

Before the men had left for Suffolk, the necessary lies had been sprinkled among a few reliable government allies and in the browned pages of certain parish records. The errant Lord Gray had returned after a scandalous decade of adventuring and been taken under the wing of Lord Fennimore—a distant cousin of Gray’s dead mother—in the hope of encouraging him to tread the path of the respectable going forward. To that end, and to keep him away from the seductive mischief of town, Lord Fennimore had rented a property deep in the countryside.

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