Chapter 2

… I do remember Peter Kent. He knocked you into a mud puddle at Broadmayne, didn't he? And stole your horse. And wasn't there something about a wedding at St. George's, two sheep, and a duel?

—from Will Ravenscroft to his sister Selina, posted from Brussels

Selina settled her poke bonnet firmly onto her head, ducked out of the back alley behind her publisher's office, and emerged into the sunshine of Bond Street.

It was extremely large, the bonnet, its brim jutting out past her face like a green silk prow. It clashed horribly with the pink pelisse she wore knotted over her yellow-striped, outrageously flounced walking gown, and if she kept her head tilted downward, her face was almost entirely obscured.

She wasn't disguised. She hadn't needed to wear the rough serge servant's dress she'd kept stuffed in the bottom of her wardrobe for well over a year, a fact that struck Selina as something of a relief.

If Lady Selina Ravenscroft, younger sister of the Duke of Rowland, were to be caught wandering about London in servant's garb, the scandal sheets would be wild with it by morning.

But in this—a shockingly out-of-fashion outfit, her hair tucked away beneath the bonnet and her face shaded by its outlandish brim—she wasn't precisely in disguise. She was simply barely recognizable, which was exactly how she preferred it.

And if she were to be recognized in this ridiculous ensemble, that wouldn't be enough to engender a scandal. Well, perhaps a very mild one, given that she was walking about without a chaperone or maid. But she need only cross two streets to where the Rowland carriage waited—her delightfully bribable maid Emmie snugged inside—and then she'd be safe. No scandal today.

No scandal so far.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before someone found out the truth about Lady Selina Ravenscroft.

She angled a glance back at the office of Jean Laventille—the radical Trinidadian immigrant who was both her publisher and her only confidant. It was, decidedly, a mistake. Because with the poke bonnet's brim blocking her vision and the flounces dancing around her body, she didn't see the little boy who darted across her path until it was too late.

They collided with a whomp , and Selina felt the breath rush out of her. She tried to stop herself from kicking the boy in the calf and overbalanced instead.

"Hell's bells!" said the child, voice sweet, dark-fringed eyes wide as saucers.

And Selina flung her hands out in front of her, her mind busily registering a series of facts:

One, the child was, perhaps, not a boy.

Two, Selina's face was about to make a very abrupt acquaintance with a cobblestone.

And three, these gloves were certainly going to be ruined, and she really liked these gloves—

And then she was caught around the chest by one strong masculine arm and set, cautiously, back on her feet.

"Good God, Lu," said the owner of the arm. "You're lucky I didn't accidentally stab this woman, because even peers of the realm aren't exempt from the legal consequences of murder."

And—

Oh.

Oh no .

Selina knew that lightly accented voice. She knew the owner of the arm. She knew that particular brand of easy words and nonsensical charm, and she knew without looking that the expression on the man's face would be a slightly feral grin.

Peter bloody Kent.

She couldn't look up. She couldn't turn her gaze even one fraction, because then the brim would reveal her face, and he would recognize her. And she really, really didn't want him to recognize her.

She was alone, not that Peter would care. But he might wonder what she was doing out here on Bond Street by herself. He might ask. He might have seen her come out of Laventille's office, for heaven's sake. She couldn't be connected to the publisher, because then she might be connected to Belvoir's, and then she would be so thoroughly entangled in the web of deception she'd crafted that she might never find her way out.

Also, he'd practically rescued her, which was mortifying.

And, God, she was wearing this patently absurd costume.

Not that she cared what he thought of her costume. Not that she thought about Peter Kent like that .

Or at all. Ever.

"Beg pardon," she mumbled, sidling away, eyes downcast and fixed on his dusty boots. She couldn't look up. She thought maybe there was another child somewhere to his other side, but she dared not turn her head to check.

But then, horror of horrors…

He recognized her anyway.

"Selina?"

Oh blast .

She tipped her head back to meet his gaze. And then back, and back farther. The bonnet, which had been quite superb at disguising her appearance, was remarkably poor at allowing for normal social congress.

Finally she found his face.

Yes, it was Peter Kent— Stanhope , she reminded herself, he was the Duke of Stanhope now—and yes, he was grinning bemusedly down at her.

She was tall, but he was taller. His bright brown eyes were lit with warmth and the comfortable, irrepressible familiarity that had him addressing her without her proper title. His dark curls were artfully mussed—she wondered if he had his valet form them with hot tongs. His fair skin was gold-burnished from the Louisiana sun, and his lips were almost insultingly lush for a man, and—

This. This was why, in the two years since she had met him and he'd tossed her into a mud puddle, she did not think about Peter Kent.

Selina dropped into a practiced curtsy, polite but not deferential. "Your Grace. What a pleasant surprise."

Peter's grin widened. "You wouldn't say that if I'd stabbed you with Lu's rapier."

She had no idea what he was talking about, as usual. She didn't even see a rapier.

Peter turned and gestured to the slightly smaller of the two children at his side. "Come on, Freddie, hand it over before Lu steals it and skewers someone."

"I thought it was blunted," said the boy, sounding scandalized. "You said it was for practice ."

"Lu could skewer someone with a spoon."

The boy—Freddie, evidently—produced what appeared to be a toy fencing foil from behind his back and handed it to Peter.

Peter's large palm practically enveloped the thing. It looked ridiculous.

He turned back to Selina. "Now that the weapons are safely stowed—"

She arched an eyebrow. Stowed, was it? He more or less held the small sword aloft.

He caught her look and ignored it utterly. "Lady Selina, allow me to present to you my siblings. Lady Selina Ravenscroft, this is Miss Lucinda Nash"—he used the foil to gesture to the taller of the two children—"and Master Frederick Nash."

Master Frederick Nash gave her a polite bow.

Miss Lucinda Nash swept her flat cap from her head, setting free a tumble of shining chocolate curls, and bowed so low she was nearly prostrate on the ground. Then she stood, regarding Selina with bright, fierce green eyes, as if daring Selina to comment on her boy's garb.

Well, Selina supposed that she had no room to criticize anyone for what they were wearing this afternoon.

"Miss Nash," she said, inclining her head in greeting. "Master Nash. It's my pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Lu," said the girl furiously. "Not Lucinda. Lu."

"Lu," whispered Freddie, looking pained. "You're not supposed to correct the duke in public—"

"Freddie, shut up , they can hear you—"

Selina bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. God, she would have hated to be laughed at when she was that age.

"My brother Nicholas is a duke as well," she offered instead. "I assure you, I correct him in public frequently."

Lu's eyes sparked with interest.

"No, please," said Peter. "Please do not encourage her."

"And is your brother the duke this stodgy?" asked Lu, as if Peter hadn't spoken.

Stodgy? Goodness, stodgy wasn't exactly the word that came to mind when she considered Peter. Alarming, maybe. Confounding. Unsettling.

Not that she thought about him, of course.

"Yes, my brother the duke is stodgy indeed." She sent an apologetic thought in the direction of Rowland House. Nicholas wasn't precisely stodgy, but when she'd been a child, he certainly had seemed rather staid. Perhaps a bit overly aristocratic.

Stodgy, in a word.

"And is your brother the duke also so old ?"

Oh mercy, how could she not laugh?

"Why yes," Selina said. "Similarly, er, decrepit."

Peter made a choked sound.

"And is your—"

"Thank you, Lu," said Peter, slinging an arm companionably about the girl's small shoulders. "That's probably enough character assassination for one day."

"Fine," said Lu. "Pardon me for making conversation with the first interesting person we've met in London."

Somehow, this rather backhanded compliment had Selina feeling quite pleased with herself. Ridiculously gowned and halfway to scandal she might be, but at least this funny little child found her interesting.

"Surely not," Peter protested.

Selina felt herself deflate.

"I just took you to meet Angelo, didn't I?" Peter continued. "That was certainly interesting."

"You would not permit me to speak, so it's not as though I could make conversation—"

Selina couldn't stop herself. "You took your sister to a fencing parlor ?" At least that explained the masculine attire.

Peter, Freddie, and Lu turned identical guilty gazes toward her, and Selina was powerfully struck by the resemblance among the three of them. The same brown curls, lit by hints of auburn in the sun. The bird-like bones of the children were echoed in Peter's lean, muscular frame, and in Lu's gamine face she could see Peter's same mischievous charm.

"I am going," Lu said with some dignity, "to learn how to fence."

"Though probably not at Angelo's," Peter put in.

"Certainly not," Selina said. "I was taught to fence in my own home, which is the only acceptable location for a lady of quality to learn the sport."

"You were ?" exclaimed Lu, losing all track of her composure.

Peter's lips curled up. "Are you suggesting that Lu learn how to fence in… your home?"

Selina scowled. "Not at all. I meant—oh, you imbecile, you knew what I meant."

Lu grinned what Selina was starting to think of as the Kent family grin. "Oh, I like her."

"Of course you do," Peter said. "She wants you to learn how to stab people."

"Might I suggest," Selina said drily, "that you hire a fencing master to attend both of your siblings at the Stanhope residence?"

Peter frowned, and Selina felt her brows go up. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him frown. "The children do not reside with me."

"They don't?" She couldn't help the rather appalled tone of her voice, though even as she said it, she supposed she was being absurd. Of course they didn't. What handsome single young aristocrat would house two small children in his London residence during the Season if he had any other option?

What aristocrat other than her older brother Nicholas, of course.

She and her twin, Will, had been six when their parents had died. Six years old, and half out of their wits with terror at the fear of what would become of them. They'd huddled together under the bed linens for the first time in years, wondering whether they'd be sent away to live with some ancient relative they did not know.

But instead, Nicholas had abandoned Oxford and, all of twenty years old, had come home to raise them himself.

"They don't live with me, no," Peter said, and his voice sounded uncharacteristically grim. "But not for want of trying."

For want of… trying?

"You don't have guardianship of your siblings, then?" she asked. And how puzzling that was. She knew Peter's parents were both deceased, like her own. Surely it would be a matter of course for the guardianship to pass to him, as hers and Will's had passed to Nicholas.

"We are half siblings," said Lu icily, and then understanding clicked into place.

These were natural children. Peter's father must have had these children with his mistress—or perhaps not even that, simply a woman with whom he'd had intercourse. Perhaps not even the same woman, she supposed.

Her own father had had a long-term mistress before he'd married their mother. It wasn't uncommon for aristocrats.

Male aristocrats, that is. It wasn't uncommon for male peers to have children with women who were not their wives.

But it was uncommon for the legitimate heir to recognize them—to introduce them as his siblings to an acquaintance on the street.

Goodness, Peter Kent did have a way of surprising her.

"I see," she said. "And where do you reside now, Miss Lu?"

Lu jerked up her chin. "With Great-great-aunt Rosamund. We love Great-great-aunt Rosamund."

Freddie emitted a little squeak—Selina thought maybe Lu had kicked him—and then he was nodding along agreeably. "Oh yes, we love her. We love her, um… her, um… her…" He gazed at Selina and then inspiration seemed to strike. "Her bonnets!"

Peter gave a strangled cough.

Lu rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Freddie."

"She sounds like a paragon," Selina said.

"Oh yes," said Peter, "certainly. What did she say this morning when I arrived to collect you? I don't think I quite understood her."

Freddie produced an imitation of a quiet snore.

"We love Great-great-aunt Rosamund," repeated Lu. "And her home is where we shall stay."

"Unless I can pry you out by means of legal action," said Peter, and there was that frown again. Selina found she didn't like to see him frown. Which was probably the most bizarre thought she'd had all day, and that included all the eye-popping combinations of colors she'd imagined plucking out of her wardrobe.

"Don't you know," Peter was saying to his sister, "I could fill the drawing room of the Stanhope residence with fencing masters, if you so desired it, Lu."

"I do not." Her small chin was still lifted, her dark brows arched in challenge.

"I have to admit," Selina said, "it is a particular pleasure to have a fencing master attend you at your leisure."

Lu turned a scowl in Selina's direction.

"Listen to Lady Selina, won't you?" Peter said, his face softening. "You like her. She's interesting. She's easily the cleverest woman of my acquaintance."

A little frisson of delight curled up like a cat inside Selina's chest, and she tried to get hold of herself. Good God, there was something about these offhand Kent compliments that could charm the hat off one's head. Even this monumental green silk bonnet.

"In fact," he said, and he turned to Selina as if about to speak. He paused for a moment, and then said, "Yes—I think that—" His warm brown eyes rested on her face consideringly.

"You think that…?" she prompted after a moment. Her cheeks were starting to feel a bit warm, and she really did not want to blush, for goodness' sake. Selina did not blush. She refused to blush.

"I'd like to speak to you and your brother about this exact situation. Can I call on you at Rowland House?"

She wasn't entirely sure what situation he was talking about—curse the man, he always made her feel as though she'd lost the plot—but…

She knew herself. She knew her fatal flaw.

She was curious. She always wanted to know more.

"Yes," Selina said. "I am living at Rowland House with the duke and duchess."

"Excellent," Peter said. "I'll call on you there."

And then he clapped a hand to the back of Lu's head and said, "Try a curtsy this time, Lu."

Lu's mouth pinched, and she held out imaginary skirts and swept Selina a rather magnificent curtsy that almost reached the depths of her previous bow.

"You know," said Selina, "I quite like you as well."