“And I assure you, Lady Alexandra, I have seen none of these flaws that you speak of. Surely, they do not exist.”

Alex laughed. “My family—particularly my brothers—would disagree with you on that point, Baron.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “No matter what you say, you are a welcome addition to our little world—mine especially.”

“I shall happily defend you to your brothers, Lady Alexandra. Being a brother myself, I am sure I speak their language well. There are four, are there not?”

Alex shook her head with a quick laugh. “Thankfully, no. I’ve only three brothers—three too many, it seems some days.”

“Of course…I do not know why I thought there were four.”

“You are not alone. It sometimes feels that way. Lord Blackmoor and they are thick as thieves, which explains his constant presence and the confusion about the number of Stafford siblings.”

The baron stilled, looking at Alex quizzically. “Lord Blackmoor, you say—friends with your brothers?”

“That is correct.”

“Ah, that is interesting.”

“Is it? After seventeen years of their combined company, good sir, I’m afraid I find it rather more tiresome than interesting.”

He chuckled good-naturedly at her response and continued, more seriously, “If I may, how is the new, young earl faring with the loss of his father?”

It was a common enough question, one that Alex had heard a number of times. She answered without thinking, “Well enough, I think. He does not speak of it much, and he seems to have—matured—if that makes sense. Our families have always been very close and I was well aware of how important his relationship with his father was to Lord Blackmoor.” Alex’s voice had softened and her gaze, of its own accord, had moved to Gavin up on the knoll, smiling at something Kit was saying. She couldn’t help thinking that even his smile was subdued in comparison to that of a year ago. “I am filled with sorrow for the pain he must feel.”

She trailed off, realizing that Ella and Vivi were both looking at her with surprised expressions. She was sharing too much with this little-known companion—too much about Blackmoor, but more importantly, too much of her own emotions. Young English ladies were not supposed to have such opinions and thoughts. They were not supposed to speak so freely. Looking at the Frenchman, Alex couldn’t help but notice his obvious discomfort with the situation—he was looking slightly desperate to escape.

With an inner sigh, Alex changed tack, a wry smile on her face. “I fear, my lord, you are too easy to speak with. I should not share so much of my thinking. I must be boring you.”

“Not at all, my lady.” The Frenchman looked distractedly into the distance, lost in thought. “The elder earl was a fine man—a great hero. I’m sorry to hear of his loss.”

“You are not alone. He was much revered by those who knew him well.”

“May I ask…?” The question hung in the air between them, the normally poised baron seeming uncertain of the proper etiquette in this particular situation.

Alex took pity on him and did not wait for him to finish his query. She knew what he was asking. With a tiny nod, she spoke. “It was an accident—the earl was thrown from his horse at the Blackmoor estate. He fell to his death.” Without thinking, she continued, “One almost cannot believe that it was an accident.” She waved a hand in dismissal at his surprised look. “It’s silly, of course. The earl had few, if any, enemies.”

Alex couldn’t help but notice that the old man had gone white as a sheet. “Baron, are you all right?” She looked back with alarm toward Vivi and Ella.

“I am quite well, yes, my lady. Unfortunately, the hour grows late, and I must regretfully take my leave.” Bowing low to the trio of girls, he made quick work of his farewell and hurried off, as though he couldn’t get away fast enough.

His abrupt decision to depart underscored his obvious discomfort with Alex’s frank conversation. She watched his speedy exit across the greensward, feeling slightly sorry for herself and, with a sigh, turned back toward the little group on the hill.

Hearing Penelope’s giggles and the boys’ laughter, she had a sudden desire to be far away from there, far away from that place that required so much effort, so much thought. She found herself exhausted by the entire charade of this first week in society. She had always known it would be a struggle to be the perfect company—to say all the proper things without appearing too opinionated, too frank, too much herself—but now, watching her friends and her brothers laugh and joke together, all so seamlessly integrated into their roles as members of London society, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was something wrong with her.

She watched as Blackmoor leaned in to say something just out of earshot to Penelope, and felt a flash of irritation as she responded with a well-practiced demure smile and shy dip of her head. Ugh. Yes. Alex had definitely had enough of society for today.

She caught Stanhope’s eye and, gallant as ever, he stood and moved toward her. “Are you unwell, Lady Alexandra?”

She couldn’t stop herself from looking past his broad shoulders, from meeting Blackmoor’s unreadable gaze as he looked up from his cards, distracted for a moment. A warning flashed ever so briefly in his grey eyes—gone so quickly that Alex might have imagined it.

She ignored it anyway and replied, “Not at all, my lord. Just a slight headache. I think I shall return home, and by tonight, I should be right as rain. Would you mind very much escorting me to Worthington House? I wouldn’t like to ruin the afternoon for everyone else.”

ten

Fear was foul company. Especially at night.

He prowled his darkened apartments, playing his actions over and over in his mind, desperately attempting to find some misstep that, when rectified, would bring him closer to the answers for which he was searching. He had to find out what the new earl knew.

His lip curled in an unconscious sneer as he paced the floor. He now knew from multiple sources that the young pup remained unconvinced that his father’s death was an accident, and that Blackmoor continued to search for evidence of foul play. He was unconcerned about information that the boy might find in the public record about that cold January day. It was easy enough, after all, to bribe a local constable or two. Instead, he worried that young Blackmoor’s search would turn up information uncovered by the former earl…information that would reveal his part in the villainy. Information that would indict him not simply for murder—but for treason as well.

Turning to a looking glass, he stared at his reflection, noting the paleness of his skin, the sunken state of his eyes. It had been an eternity since he had slept through the night, unplagued by the demons that haunted him in the darkness. He had been able to take a small pleasure in Blackmoor’s death…but now, as this suffocating blackness surrounded him, he found little comfort. He was becoming consumed by fear from all sides—fear of the powerful men to whom he answered, who were losing their patience with each passing day, who would soon be unwilling to hear his excuses and would take their revenge by any means necessary…including blood.

He swore fiercely and, with force borne of frustration, lifted a candelabra from a nearby table and hurled it at his reflection, embracing the sound of shattering glass—enjoying the way he looked in the fractured mirror. He saw himself repeated in each shard and, for the first time in months, felt as though he were not alone.

Events beyond his control were taking place across the Continent. Napoleon was pressing north and war was again imminent. Time was running out. If he didn’t find answers for his powerful partners, he would lose everything for which he had worked. He was left with little choice—not that he was saddened by what he knew he must do next. He could not let another Earl of Blackmoor ruin his well-laid plans. No, he must prevent that at all costs, by any means necessary. If the young earl knew anything, he would soon share it…or pay the price.

He smiled wickedly into the broken mirror, then spoke aloud.

“Let’s not fool ourselves. The brat will pay the price no matter what he knows.”

“It’s hard to believe my hair can do this!” Alex was unable to keep the wonder from her voice as she craned her neck to see the back of her head in the candlelit mirror of her bedchamber. “Of course,” she continued drily, “it’s hard to believe that much about this picture is the product of nature.”

It was the evening of the first Worthington House dinner of the season—an affair renowned by those lucky enough to receive an invitation, and Alex’s first formal dinner of the season. For some reason, tonight’s festivities made the thought of eating the evening meal in the home she’d known all her life somewhat unnerving. Her reflection did little to change that.

Wrapped in another of Madame Fernaud’s masterpieces, this time a pale pink silk that fell in luxurious waves to matching silk slippers, Alex had just been released from Eliza’s highly skilled hands, her hair now twisted and tucked and pinned and curled in an intricate design that left her long neck exposed in one of the most fashionable styles of the season.

Alex couldn’t help but feel that all this elaborate pampering was rather unnecessary—especially considering she’d known most of those who planned to be in attendance for the great majority of her lifetime—but she’d already learned in this short season to pick her battles with her mother. And this was not one into which she was willing to enter.

A knock on her bedchamber door snapped her from her thoughts. She called out for her visitor to enter, and smiled brilliantly when she saw her father reflected in the mirror. Standing, she turned toward him, dropped into an exaggerated curtsy, and, smiling broadly, said, “Your Grace. I trust I pass inspection?”

He chuckled at her use of the ducal address and offered her a hand to lift her from her position. Tilting his head, he answered in a voice rich with humor. “Far be it from me to answer that particular question. I wouldn’t dare risk removing that opinion from the purview of the duchess. You know that.” Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he continued, “Suffice to say, my lady, that I believe you are the most beautiful of my offspring.”

Alex burst into laughter and leaned up to kiss her father’s cheek. “Well said…ever the diplomat. Although I rather think it shouldn’t be that difficult to be the most beautiful when compared to the hulking brutes you call sons.”

“Not diplomacy at all, daughter. You look lovely. And, sadly, very grown up. When did you get so tall?”

Alex was just a few inches from her father’s height, and she smiled at the question. “Strong Stafford blood, of course, Father. Are you certain we’re not descended from the Vikings?”

“Looking at the four of you, one does wonder. But then there is I, the diminutive duke…pathetically small and not at all Norse.” He spoke with exaggerated self-pity to gain a laugh from his daughter, then changed the subject. “Are you ready for your entrance at your first Worthington House dinner?

Wrinkling her nose, Alex replied, “I’m afraid as ready as ever. I’m surprised you came to fetch me instead of Mother. I would have thought she’d want to appraise my appearance.”

“Your mother is busy making last-minute changes to the seating arrangements to ensure complete perfection.” He paused as Alex rolled her eyes. “And, as the Duke of Worthington, it falls to me to escort the most beautiful young lady at the gathering to the festivities.”

Alex smiled. “Ah, you forget, Father, that I am a graduate of an obscene number of hours of instruction in Proper Conversation, which includes the voluminous rules and regulations regarding dinners and escorts. I know you lie. Your job, as the host, is to escort the highest-ranking lady to the festivities.” She queried innocently, “Perhaps you would like for me to arrange a refresher course for you?”

“Ah, but you forget, daughter. The best part of being a duke is that one can change the rules at one’s whim…and no one dares disagree.”

“An excellent benefit.”

“I’ve always thought so. Shall we go?” He offered an arm for his daughter, then stopped as she took hold of it. “Wait. I’ve forgotten something.”

From his coat pocket, he removed a long string of jewels and held it up for Alex to see. She gasped and looked at her father incredulously. “Grandmother’s sapphires?” She couldn’t help herself from reaching for the stunning strand of pink sapphires. “But, Father…they were so much a part of her…they’re virtually iconic. I don’t think…”

“Nonsense. Your grandmother was headstrong and brilliant and took the ton by storm. I’m told she spent her first season breaking a score of hearts and boldly inserting her opinion where it wasn’t desired. Frankly, you remind me entirely of her, and she would be as proud of you tonight as I am. She’d want you to make your debut at a Worthington salon in these. Of that, I am certain.” And then, with the regal tone perfected by years of expecting all within earshot to do the ducal bidding, he ordered, “Turn around.”

She did, and soon felt the cool weight of the necklace that had been so integral a part of her grandmother. Turning toward the mirror, she caught a glimpse of someone she barely recognized. Was that really she? The duke nodded firmly at the reflection. “Now you’re ready to make your appearance as the Stafford you are.”

There was something about the moment that struck deep at the core of her, something that filled her heart with equal parts nervousness and pride—nervousness at the responsibility she had not just to her father or her mother, but to a line of remarkable, honorable men and women who could be traced back to the earliest days of Britain, and pride that she had such a noble line to call her own. Taking her father’s arm, she made a silent vow to try her best to make them proud.