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  “No one knows for sure and if they do they’re not saying.” From the corner of her eye, Emily watched a sly grin creep over Anthony’s face. “Greg certainly isn’t talking, but the wags say he smuggled valuable documents across the Channel on more than one occasion.”

  They stopped in front of Anthony’s friends and introductions were made. Sir Gregory smiled at Emily. “You must be the lady for whom Anthony purchased a mare this morning at Tattersall’s, Mrs. Martin. She’s a beautiful animal, gentle but with a good spirit. She’ll do you well.”

  “And since Greg is regarded as having one of the best eyes for horseflesh in London, you may count on his opinion,” the viscount added. “I’d never buy a horse without asking his opinion first. Anthony, did you hear that Phillip and Franny may put in an appearance tonight?”

  “Is she enough recovered from childbed for that?” Anthony asked.

  “So they say,” the viscount answered. “Though we’ve hardly seen Phillip at his clubs since his son was born. The wags are saying he’s always in the nursery, holding or rocking or trying to help. The nursemaid is more than a little put out.”

  “I think it’s wonderful a new father should want to spend so much time with his baby,” Emily said. “Good for Phillip.”

  “He’s Viscount Danbury,” Anthony corrected.

  “Good for Viscount Danbury then,” Emily rejoined and the men laughed.

  “We call ourselves Rogues’ Gallery, Mrs. Martin,” Viscount Pemberton explained. “If Phillip and Amos Quincy were here, we’d be complete. But perhaps Phillip would no longer wish to be styled a ‘rogue’ now that he’s settled down to a life of marital bliss.”

  “As your mother would have you, Brandon,” Sir Gregory said gleefully.

  “Please, Greg, try not to mention that too much tonight. She made damn sure—begging your pardon, Mrs. Martin—to speak with the mother of every eligible and promise I would dance with them. May I steal a dance or two from you as well so I may be assured of intelligent conversation this evening?”

  Emily could not stop her laugh at Hightower’s woeful expression. “Of course, Lord Brandon. I’ll be happy to dance with you.”

  “Your Grace?”

  A well-built man with graying hair and a face marked by old pox scars stood nearby, his approach having gone unnoticed. Beside her, Anthony stiffened, his expression in the flickering candlelight shuttling between sorrow and annoyance. A mask of resignation settled over his features and he turned. “Good evening, Sir Edgar,” he said tonelessly. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Emily, this is Sir Edgar Lennox. Sir Edgar, may I present Mrs. Emily Martin. Sir Edgar is a physician, Emily.”

  “Retired,” Sir Edgar corrected with a bow. “Your servant, Mrs. Martin.”

  “Sir Edgar,” Emily said, watching Anthony as she curtseyed.

  “I’d heard you were back in town,” Sir Edgar continued. “Welcome home, Your Grace. Are your sisters with you?”

  “Thank you and no, they are not.” Anthony looked past the doctor, his features still set in stone. “You will pardon me. I must speak to Miss Margaret Stanhope about putting my name on her dance card.”

  He left them, the speed of his stride suggesting the Prince Regent was waiting for him. Music began from an overhead gallery and, after murmuring a farewell, Sir Edgar hastened away, moving between the couples lining up for a country dance. A sprightly tune set their pace, and Emily turned her attention to the silent men beside her. “What was that all about?”

  Sir Gregory’s returning glance was thoughtful. “How well do you know Anthony, Mrs. Martin?”

  Better than I’m going to share with you.

  “He and my brother were at Cambridge together. Anthony spent the summer with us the year before they completed their studies.” It was Emily’s turn to hesitate and caution prompted her to lower her voice. “I know they say Anthony’s father killed himself last year. I also know Anthony doesn’t believe it.”

  “There’s a whole group of people coming this way, Greg,” Lord Brandon warned. “I suggest you either take Mrs. Martin for a turn about the room or out on the dance floor.”

  Nodding, Sir Gregory took Emily by the arm and led her over to the wall where they began their slow journey around the room. Emily caught sight of Anthony, talking with Miss Stanhope, his attention fully engaged in what she was saying. The young woman’s serene expression suggested she had no fear of talking to one of the highest peers in the realm. Perhaps she would do for Anthony.

  Giving her attention back to her escort, Emily asked, “What were you going to tell me, Sir Gregory?”

  His turned his head slightly as if to ensure no one was within hearing distance. “That none of the rogues believe Anthony’s father committed suicide, nor do most of his friends. But the evidence was so overwhelming, as were the allegations against him after his death, we were forced keep our beliefs to ourselves.”

  “What does this have to do with Sir Lennox?” Emily asked.

  “Sir Edgar was the physician to Anthony’s father, Sir Conrad. They had planned to play chess that night. Sir Edgar arrived at Lord Bradford’s London home minutes after the servants heard a shot in the library. They had to break down the locked door and found Lord Bradford with his hand still holding the gun. Sir Edgar examined the body and pronounced it a suicide. Did you know about the fraudulent investment scheme Lord Bradford allegedly set up?”

  “Some of it,” Emily said. “Did many people lose a great deal of money?”

  “Several,” he admitted, nodding to another strolling couple. “Sir Charles Abernathy lost five hundred pounds and is still furious about it. He confronted Anthony this morning at Tattersall’s, but I wouldn’t mention to Anthony I told you that. Two or three others lost around a hundred pounds, but no one as much as Abernathy. Anthony refused to believe his father had cheated anyone or led them into dangerous investments, and so refused to make compensations to the investors. They’re not going to be happy when they learn Anthony has returned and, rest assured, if they don’t already know it, Abernathy will be sure to tell them.”

  Her heart aching, Emily said, “Where was Anthony when his father died?”

  Sir Gregory sighed. “Coming back from their estate in Kent. As unreasonable as it is, Anthony associates Sir Edgar with his father’s death. If Sir Edgar had arrived sooner…”

  He did not need to finish his sentence. “Poor Anthony,” Emily murmured. “To come home and find such a tragedy waiting for him.”

  “It was almost as bad for Sir Lennox,” Sir Gregory continued. “His only daughter Miranda was being courted by the Earl of Stockett’s eldest son. The scandal could have ended the courtship, but at least that part of the story has a happy ending.”

  “Did Sir Lennox’s daughter marry Stockett’s heir?”

  “Yes. There they are now.” Sir Gregory pointed toward a corner where the physician talked with a young couple.

  “They look very happy,” Emily said. “I’m glad Anthony has friends like you and Lord Brandon to support him.”

  “And now he has you,” Sir Gregory said. “It should be an interesting Season.”

  “Especially since I’m going to help him find a bride,” Emily said, hoping to dispel any notion this man might have about her own intentions toward Anthony.

  “Indeed?” Sir Gregory tipped his head toward the dancers taking their places for another set. “Perhaps he’s already found her.”

  Anthony was leading Miss Stanhope out on the floor for a new dance and wistfulness tugged at Emily’s heart. Like with her, Anthony was wasting no time.

  “Shall we join them?” Sir Gregory asked.

  Putting the wistfulness into the deepest part of her heart, Emily gave him her brightest smile. “Of course.”

  Chapter Seven

  Anthony Dyson is back in town. The man smacked the windowpane, rattling the glass in its frame. After all this time, why now?

  It had been a year since the old duke’s death. A death the man ha
d been sure to make look like suicide. The ensuing scandal with its accusations of lying and fraud had driven Anthony Dyson and his younger sisters to the Continent and kept them there. What had brought him back?

  And what in the hell had happened to the youth he had seen running through the garden beyond the French doors just after he shot the old duke? Dyson had put up struggle, but too much fencing had sprained his right arm, making it all the easier to slip behind him, force the gun into his right hand and pull the trigger. But the youth had vanished like summer’s smoke. The months spent trying to find him—not to mention looking over his own shoulder, waiting for a summons from the authorities—had been maddening and nerve-fraying.

  Recalling last year’s events, he made a quick mental calculation, trying to remember if Anthony’s sisters were old enough to make their come-outs. As daughters of a duke and now sisters of one, they would be very eligible, indeed when the time came. And even if the stench of scandal still clung to Dyson, every woman with marriageable daughters would have him in her matrimonial crosshairs. After all, a duke was a duke.

  But would Anthony try proving his persistent claim that his father’s death wasn’t suicide? Any attempts to prove otherwise would be taken for the misguided beliefs of a son who still mourned the loss of a beloved father and discounted as such.

  He hoped.

  He was not without influence and, while he had a few detractors, was usually regarded as an amiable man. The pile of invitations on his desk spoke to that. He would use his charm to be sure he was invited to the same events as Anthony and attend every one of them.

  Moving to his desk, he sat, read over the first invitation and penned a reply before ringing for the footman. After giving instructions for its delivery first thing tomorrow, he returned to the window and gazed out at the quiet London street. The Season would provide him an excellent and foolproof way to study Dyson unobserved and guess his plans.

  And decide whether or not there would be reason to kill again.

  * * * * *

  “So what did you think of Miss Crawford?” Emily’s finger ran down the list in her hand.

  “What did you think?” Anthony continued working her brush through her curls. Soft and light, they caressed his hands like a bolt of raw silk waiting to be woven. Recalling how they felt spilling over his skin, his cock hardened in anticipation.

  “She talks a great deal, but that might be from nerves,” Emily commented. “Many young girls chatter when they’re nervous.”

  “Really?”

  Her glance met his in the dressing table mirror. “Oh come, Anthony. You have sisters. You should know that.”

  “That’s true,” he conceded, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “Grace and Tabitha are champion chatterers. And gigglers. Who’s next on the list?”

  Larissa Studer, second daughter to Baron Carlisle. Rather tall and rather thin.”

  “Too thin, I think,” Anthony commented. “A man likes to have something to get his hands around. Something curvy.”

  “Well then, Abigail Gloucester would be perfect.” Emily pointed at the third name on the list. “She’s very curvy.”

  “Good Lord, Emily, Abigail Gloucester just made her bow a week ago. She’s a child.”

  “But she’s from a family of nine children,” Emily said. “And according to Jocelyn, her married sisters have all produced three children each. That suggests she could certainly provide an heir as well as more to spare.”

  “That may be,” Anthony agreed, laying down the brush. “But a man wants to be able to talk to his wife about things. I can’t see myself discussing the day’s events with Abigail Gloucester.”

  She sighed. “Then who do you want?”

  “You. Right now. In the bed.”

  Swatting his hand, she asked, “What about Margaret Stanhope?”

  “The Season just started. That gives me almost two months to find the right bride. And even though I find Miss Stanhope the most charming young woman I’ve met since my return—with the exception of you, of course—I’ve been back in London less than a week. One shouldn’t be too hasty. After all, marriage is forever. You don’t want me to marry some silly little twit, do you?”

  A quiet rap on the closed door interrupted Emily’s answer. Anthony stifled an oath and pointed at the bed. “Wait for me.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She touched two fingers to her forehead in a quick salute.

  Anthony padded across the room, enjoying the soft weave of the carpet against his feet, and wondered if he could convince Emily to make love on it provided they used pillows and blankets. That would no doubt be another first for her.

  Pulling the door open just enough to peer into the sitting room and find his valet, he whispered, “This better be important, Davis.”

  “You have callers, Your Grace.” Davis returned his whisper.

  “Tell them I’ve gone to bed.”

  “They say it’s a matter of great importance, sir.”

  I don’t care if Napoleon has escaped and is riding through the streets of London. Tell them—”

  “It’s regarding your father, sir.”

  Shock hit Anthony hard and fast, chasing away the warmth of the room. Clutching the door, he stared at his servant’s tight-lipped grimace. “My father?” he repeated. “Who the hell are these guests?”

  “Mister Amos Quincy and another gentleman unknown to me, sir,” Davis supplied. “I’ve put them in the Common Room downstairs. What shall I tell them?”

  Anthony gathered his reeling thoughts into a logical framework. “That I’ll join them in five minutes. Thank you, Davis.”

  Davis nodded and Anthony closed the door, fighting the urge to sag against it. Dear God, after all this time what had Amos uncovered? Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck and he pulled his robe more tightly about him. Perhaps at long last his family would know peace.

  He took a moment to steady himself before returning to his room. “Emily?” he called. “I’m sorry to leave you, but I must meet with—”

  The soft rhythm of a sleeper’s breathing stopped his words and he halted by the bed. Emily lay curled among the sheets, lost in deep slumber, the list of eligibles still in her hand. He leaned down to gently push back a lock of hair covering her eyes and she shifted ever so slightly, a dreamy smile raising the corners of her mouth. A bolt of tenderness shot through him, prompting him to feather a kiss across her forehead.

  Why of all the women of my acquaintance, should she be the only one who can’t give me a child? She would be a splendid duchess. But I promised Father our line would continue.

  After dressing as quietly as he could, Anthony left his suite. Downstairs in the Common Room, someone—Davis, no doubt—had lit a fire. Shadows danced in the flickering light, making the furniture appear enormous. A bottle of Calvados and three snifters were set on a nearby table. Two men, one younger than the other, stood waiting in front of the hearth.

  “Amos,” Anthony greeted the older man as he joined them by the fire. “You’ve come about my father.”

  Amos Quincy’s family, while not of noble birth, had made their fortune in a variety of things over the centuries. Like Greg Keller, Amos had been tapped by the Foreign Office years ago to “find out things” for the Crown. Using that same talent, he had started his own business to help those in need of information for matters both personal and private. Rumors abounded as to what he knew about the ton’s secrets and how much. Anthony had never thought he would need his friend’s services until his father died. The last time they had spoken face to face was just before Anthony boarded the ship for Florence, when he had charged Amos to look into his father’s personal life and send him answers—no matter how unsavory. Letters had arrived every few months, detailing searches that had yielded nothing.

  Until now.

  Amos inclined his head, his russet-red hair gleaming in the firelight. “I have,” he said. Gesturing at the other man, he said, “This Joseph Mallory, one of my agents.” />
  Mallory bowed. “Your Grace.”

  Anthony waved them in the direction of the chairs grouped before the fire. After pouring their drinks, he filled his own glass and sat across from them. “My father,” he said simply. “What have you learned?”

  At Amos’ nod, Mallory said, “There’s talk in criminal London since your return, Your Grace. Talk it wasn’t suicide that ended your father’s life, but murder.”

  I knew it. By heaven, I knew it.

  Anthony gripped the stem of the glass. “What else?”

  “That’s all, Your Grace,” Mallory said ruefully. “At the moment it’s just chatter, but Mr. Quincy thought you’d want to know.”

  “Mallory is my best agent, Your Grace.” Amos fell into the formal address he used when others not in their inner circle were present. “Criminal London knows him as a petty thief and scrivener with no idea he works for me. His ability to slip into dens of vice and rookeries without anyone being the wiser has been invaluable, so we must be cautious to keep him safe. I can’t afford to lose him because of undue haste.”

  “I understand,” Anthony said. “You’ll send me reports as you are able?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Amos finished his brandy and the other men did the same, returning their glasses to the table. Mallory bowed and exited the room first, closing the door behind him.

  Anthony waited for the click of the latch before asking, “You’re sure he’s trustworthy?”

  “Absolutely,” Amos assured. “It might take more time than you’d like, Anthony, but you did just return. If the truth is out there, I’ll find it. You have my solemn word.”

  Accepting his friend’s offered hand, Anthony said, “I know you will, Amos. Thank you.”

  “And you be careful, as well,” Amos warned, buttoning his great coat. “If criminal London is already talking, there’s no telling what the killer might do.”

  “Let him come,” Anthony said grimly. “I’ll make him wish he were dead.”

  After Amos departed, Anthony poured another measure of Calvados. Its taste of sweet apples warmed his tongue while Amos’ promise hammered into his brain.