Chapter Two

C HAPTER T WO

Two weeks later, the entire court gathered for the baby’s christening. As the child’s blanket was drawn back, everyone leaned forward to see her.

Whereupon there was a collective gasp that turned into whispering that led to a murmuration so loud the pigeons perched on the roof took wing.

What everyone was saying was:

Lady Long-Nose.…

—From Lady Long-Nose

Almost an hour later, Elspeth was the last to enter the Hawthorne carriage. She sat opposite Messalina and Lucretia and twitched her skirts into order thoughtfully. “Does Mr. Greycourt often come to tea parties? He doesn’t seem the sort to be interested in little cakes and gossip.”

Lucretia snorted. “No, he’s not.”

“Julian is worried about us.” Messalina said as she stroked Daisy, drowsing on her lap. “Or at least I believe that’s why he accepted the duchess’s invitation.”

Lucretia rolled her eyes. “Julian’s actions are entirely opaque.”

“Are they, though?” Messalina looked thoughtful.

“What do you mean?” Elspeth asked curiously.

Messalina bit her lip. “I think Julian holds himself to blame for Aurelia’s death.”

Elspeth shivered. Ah. That night fifteen years ago when Aurelia Greycourt, the eldest Greycourt daughter, had been killed. And Elspeth’s own brother, Ranulf de Moray, now the Duke of Ayr, was whispered to be her murderer.

Elspeth hesitated and then blurted, “ Should Mr. Greycourt be blamed for Aurelia’s death?”

“I don’t think so.” Messalina sighed. “Of course I was asleep when it happened, so I can’t say with absolute certainty, but in any case, because of Aurelia’s death, I believe Julian is doubly worried about Lucretia and me.” She looked at Elspeth. “He doesn’t want to lose another sister.”

Elspeth’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you in danger, then?”

Messalina winced. “There is our uncle. The duke is…”

“A beast,” Lucretia said bluntly. “He’s an evil old man who delights in making people unhappy.”

“Hence Julian’s urge to guard us.”

“Like some sort of mastiff growling over a bit of beef.” Lucretia wrinkled her nose. “I swear I can feel him staring at me whenever we’re in the same room together. It’s not at all nice.”

“Darling,” Messalina murmured in a chiding tone, “he cares for us.”

“Does he?” Lucretia challenged. “He hardly speaks to us, aside from the usual courtesies. I think we’re a duty to him, not sisters he loves.”

Messalina looked unhappy, but she didn’t refute Lucretia’s claim, Elspeth noticed.

The carriage dipped and bumped over the uneven cobblestones.

Mr. Greycourt was very… intense, Elspeth mused, glancing out the carriage window. She remembered his pale-gray eyes drilling into her as he warned her away from the duke, the library, and indeed all of Windemere House. His eyes had been so hard, so cold.

And yet…

There was something about him that made her want to crack him. Make him take off that icy mask and acknowledge that he saw her.

She must stop dwelling on the man.

The carriage shuddered to a halt, and Elspeth straightened and looked out the window. “Oh, we’re at Harlowe House.”

Harlowe House was the London home of the Dukes of Harlowe, the latest of whom was Elspeth’s brother-in-law, Christopher, better known as Kester to the family. Freya had married him only a month ago in a small ceremony.

“Convey my love to Freya,” Messalina said. “And tell her we’re looking forward to her ball next week.”

Elspeth nodded as she stepped from the carriage. “I will.”

Both ladies waved as the driver started the horses.

Elspeth turned to inspect Harlowe House.

It was a grand townhouse on par with Windemere. But Harlowe House had been built much more recently and thus boasted lovely Palladian columns, rising loftily along the facade.

Palladian. Elspeth wrapped her arms around herself and wriggled happily. It was so wonderful to see architecture that she’d only read about in books before.

She mounted the front steps and narrowed her eyes at the waiting butler. The man called himself Fletcher and was tall and thin, with ridiculously bushy eyebrows. Elspeth didn’t trust him in the least. Butlers were very suspicious. They lived in all the great houses, and who knew what they really did? She kept an eye on Fletcher as he ushered her to Freya’s sitting room.

Freya was lounging by the fire, but she rose at Elspeth’s entrance, holding out her hands in greeting. “I expected you hours ago. Her Grace’s tea must’ve been quite long.”

Elspeth crossed to her sister and let her cheek be bussed as she took Freya’s hands. “You wouldn’t believe how long. But there were little iced cakes to console me.”

Freya looked amused. “Thank goodness.”

They both listened as the door to the sitting room closed behind Fletcher.

Immediately, Freya pulled Elspeth to sit with her on a settee near the fire—away from the door and any listening ears. “Well?”

“I was interrupted,” Elspeth said, remembering Mr. Greycourt striding into the library, proud and distant. “I didn’t have time to find Maighread’s diary.”

Freya’s brows knit in concern. “You were discovered?”

“Not by the duke.”

“Thank Goddess!”

Elspeth winced. “But Julian Greycourt saw me in the library.”

“I’m not entirely certain that’s any better,” Freya said grimly. “He was there the night Aurelia was killed and Ranulf was beaten so badly. He never came to our brother’s defense.”

“But you’ve made up with Messalina and Lucretia since?” Elspeth asked curiously.

Freya twisted her lips. “ They had nothing to do with whatever happened at the Greycourt manor. Besides, Kester was there as well, remember? My husband has told me that it was Julian who wouldn’t let him help Ranulf as he was beaten by the duke’s men.”

“Oh.” Elspeth swallowed, feeling a bit ill. Ranulf had lost his right hand as a result of that beating. Mr. Greycourt must loathe the de Morays. “He was at the tea afterwards, I’m afraid. And he sat next to me.”

Freya asked fiercely, “Did he threaten you?”

“No, not at all,” Elspeth said slowly. “Mr. Greycourt was quite abrupt and rather disapproving, but he only warned me to stay away from the duke.”

In fact, shouldn’t Mr. Greycourt have been more hostile when he realized she was a de Moray? After all, he believed her brother had killed his sister.

“Well, he was quite right about that.” Freya hesitated and then seemed to make up her mind about something. “I’m sorry, dearest. I know you think that finding Maighread’s diary will somehow gather the Wise Women back together, but is it really worth the danger?”

“Yes.” Elspeth knew she was thrusting out her chin defiantly. All three of the de Moray sisters—Freya, Caitriona, and herself—were rather known for their stubbornness. As the youngest, Elspeth had had to learn early to defend her ideas against her older and more articulate sisters. “Maighread reformed the Wise Women nearly a thousand years ago, writing our laws and reminding us that we served all women. It is only because of her that the Wise Women still exist. The Hags must listen to her writings.”

“Must they, though?” Freya pursed her lips. “What if the Hags aren’t interested in Maighread’s teachings? They are, after all, the leaders of the Wise Women. Most follow the Hags’ decrees like baaing sheep.”

Elspeth inhaled and took a moment to order her thoughts.

The Wise Women were an ancient, secret organization pledged to help all women in Britain. Their compound was in the north of Scotland, and Elspeth and her sisters had grown up there after Papa had died. Elspeth had been only six when they’d lost Papa.

Freya had left their home years ago when she had been made Macha—the Wise Women’s spy. But Elspeth and their middle sister, Caitriona, had stayed in that isolated world.

Within the Wise Women’s compound was an ancient library full of knowledge from all over the world. The keeper of this library was called the Bibliothacar. When Elspeth turned thirteen, the Hags had decided she should become the Bibliothacar’s apprentice.

Fortunately, Elspeth had found she enjoyed the work. The Bibliothacar who mentored her had been a very old woman called Rikvi. She had been stern but kind, and Elspeth had loved both her and the library. When Rikvi died, Elspeth should have inherited the title.

But there had been changes in the Hags as some died and were replaced. The new Hags had become fearful. The Wise Women had always been secretive, but now the Hags decided that the risk of discovery and destruction was too great. They abandoned the women outside their walls, closed the gates, and pushed out the Wise Women who disagreed—including the de Moray sisters.

Freya had been in London when she’d received orders to either comply with the new rules or quit the Wise Women. She’d chosen the latter. Caitriona and Elspeth had been forced to leave the compound, Caitriona traveling to see their brother, Lachlan, in Scotland, and Elspeth making the journey to London and Freya. She’d arrived only weeks ago and had immediately started laying plans to search the Duke of Windemere’s library.

The Wise Women were simply too precious to let shrivel and die because the Hags were afraid.

Elspeth opened her eyes. “You’re right. When I bring Maighread’s diary to the Hags, they might dismiss it, but I believe that there are enough people in the Wise Women who still honor Maighread’s teachings. Rikvi thought the diary was important.”

“I’m sure she did,” Freya replied, sounding soothing—so irritating! “But she’d never seen the diary, had she?”

“No living Wise Woman has,” Elspeth said with some excitement. Wouldn’t it be wonderful when she found the near-mythical book?

“Then how do we know it’s still extant? Perhaps it was burned decades ago.”

Elspeth’s eyes widened. “Why would anyone destroy such a precious artifact?”

“Oh, darling, you’ve been out in the world only a month,” Freya said gently. “Maybe someone read it. After all, it was written by a woman whom most outsiders would see as, at best, a rebel against society, or worse, simply mad.”

Sometimes Elspeth found it very hard to understand outside society. But… “I can’t give up my search because of what might have happened.”

“And if it never existed?” Freya asked. “Perhaps Maighread’s diary is simply legend.”

“No, it’s not.” Elspeth knew she was correct in this. “Rikvi was certain the diary was in a Greycourt family house. The information has been passed down from Bibliothacar to Bibliothacar.”

“Well.” Freya sat back against the settee. “I suppose I can’t convince you to change your mind, but you must be careful, darling.” She met Elspeth’s gaze. “Mr. Greycourt is dangerous, the duke more so, and there are Dunkelders in London.”

The Dunkelders were humorless people—mostly men, naturally. The rest of Britain might have given up on witch burning, but the Dunkelders still hunted Wise Women.

Elspeth shuddered at the thought. “I will be careful, but I must find that diary.”

Even if that meant crossing paths with Mr. Greycourt again.

Julian rode along the street that evening. The wet paving stones, the looming houses, and the air itself felt murky and macabre in the dimming light. Footsteps sounded from the dark, some near, some far, but Julian was alone on the street. Not even the moon, hidden behind clouds, kept him company.

Maudlin thought.

A cat suddenly darted across the cobbles, causing Octavia to shy, and Julian realized to his chagrin that he’d not been paying attention to what was happening around him. The mare’s hooves struck the cobblestones with a clear clop-clop , the sound echoing off the shuttered buildings. The dark had fallen fully now. Ahead, two shadows lingered within an alleyway.

Unmoving.

Keeping silent.

Suspicion was an ingrained habit now after years of threats, feints, and outright attacks from Augustus.

The duke didn’t want him to inherit the title.

Julian wheeled Octavia around at the thought, kneeing her into a canter back down the street. A shout and a bang came from behind him, and he instinctively crouched over his saddle, heart racing in his chest. They turned into a more crowded street, and Julian reined Octavia back to a trot. She shook her head, nervous after their abrupt retreat.

Julian patted her neck as he guided her onto a different route.

Only a few minutes later, the White Horse Inn came into sight, and Julian breathed a relieved sigh. He and his younger brother, Quintus, had taken rooms here.

Had Father lived, there would have been a London townhouse. But Augustus had held the purse strings of the family ever since his brother, Julian’s father, had died. When Julian had turned one-and-twenty, the duke had handed over his inheritance—a pittance.

Julian knew— knew —that there had been more money, but what could he do against the Duke of Windemere?

Hence the inn.

The White Horse was a large posting inn. A carriage stood in the middle of the courtyard, hostlers unhitching the horses and leading the tired animals to the stable, while the coachmen threw down the luggage, and what looked like the last straggling passengers entered the inn.

When Julian at last deposited Octavia’s reins into the hands of a stable boy and went inside, he found the common room packed. Smoke, the smell of roasting beef, and the loud voices of dining travelers assaulted his senses.

“You there,” Julian called, stopping a hurrying tavern maid. “Some of that roast beef I can smell for our rooms as well as a bottle of wine.”

“Aye, sir.” The girl curtsied and ran toward the bustling kitchen.

Julian had little hope of seeing their meal anytime soon.

He turned to the left, begged pardon of an elderly country squire, and climbed sturdy wooden stairs to the floor above. There were only a few tallow candles on the wall and no windows, making the corridor dim. Julian stopped at the third door on the right and knocked.

There was a thump from within and then a scrape before the door was unbarred and opened.

Quinn peered out, his black hair a wild tangle around his head. His bulky shoulders filled the doorway.

“Jules!” Quinn seized Julian’s arm and pulled him into the room, slamming the door behind them. “I saw her. I saw Aurelia again today!”

“Did you?” Julian gently shook off his brother’s grasp and walked to the table and chairs before the small fireplace. He took off his gloves and hat, throwing them on the table.

“You sound doubtful.”

Julian turned.

Quinn was scowling at him, obviously ready for a fight.

Julian closed his eyes. He didn’t want this. To argue with his brother. To try to tear down Quinn’s hope—his belief—that Aurelia, Quinn’s twin, might still be alive. Until a fortnight ago, his brother had been almost daily in his cups.

But then Quinn had seen a woman with gold hair and a certain way of holding her head. Only a glimpse, mind, in the crowd at Covent Garden market, but he was convinced it had been Aurelia. Never mind that Aurelia had died fifteen years before. Never mind that Aurelia had been sixteen when she died. Never mind that she’d be one and thirty had she lived, and who knew what she might look like? Quinn was convinced that he’d seen his twin.

At least this new hope—however tenuous it might be—had Quinn curtailing his drinking.

Julian took a breath. “Can we argue this later?”

“Aye.” Quinn grunted and threw himself into a chair, making it creak. “How about Peg? Did she give you any information about Augustus?”

“Peg wasn’t there.” Julian met his brother’s gaze grimly. “What’s more, Augustus stopped me in the hall after I left the library. He told me that Peg was gone.”

“Fuck,” Quinn muttered. “He must’ve discovered she was going to speak to you. How?”

Julian shrugged. “The old man has filled Windemere with spies loyal to him. She must’ve let something slip. I can think of no other explanation. Augustus wouldn’t have let her live once he recognized the possible danger to himself. It was a miracle that Peg McDonald had remained alive and in his employ all these years.”

“Have you any idea what she meant to tell you?” Quinn asked.

“No.” Julian dropped into the chair opposite his brother. “Perhaps she knew nothing. Perhaps I was merely chasing a fleeting hope—and she died for it.”

“She must have known something against the old man,” Quinn growled. “Why else would he have killed her?”

“Sheer malevolence?”

“Don’t jest.” Quinn glared at him.

“What makes you think I am?” Julian raised his hands in surrender. “I think someone shot at me on the way home.”

His brother swore savagely. “When will you take your own safety seriously? You know not to travel at night.”

“Or in crowds, in places I frequent, in places I’m not familiar with…” Julian smiled bitterly. “The problem is that I’d be under a bed night and day if I worried about my own safety so much. I cannot. I cannot hide and keep my family safe, too. I will not.”

“This is your life,” Quinn said fiercely. “Jules.”

“It’s what I must do,” Julian said quietly. “I take what precautions I can.” Frivolous words. The duke had already made one failed attempt. It was only a matter of time before he made another. And this time the old man might very well succeed. “I’ll not leave you his heir.”

Not and paint a target on Quinn’s back instead.

Quinn scoffed. “You had better not.”

“Besides,” Julian continued more lightly, “maybe the old man will finally get an heir on Ann. Then all our worries will be over.”

Quinn looked at him from under the untamed locks of hair falling in his eyes. “I think we will have worries until our uncle is in the grave. You know my opinion on the matter.”

“I do know,” Julian said calmly. Quinn had several times suggested that hastening their uncle’s death would be beneficial to the entire Greycourt family. “And I also know that one or both of us hanging for the murder of a peer would destroy this family.”

“There won’t be much of a family if we lose another member.” Quinn restlessly rose from his chair.

And really wasn’t that the heart of the matter? Aurelia’s death fifteen years ago had split apart the family—literally. Mother had died not that long afterward, the girls were sent to a distant elderly uncle, and Quinn and Julian were condemned to endure Augustus’s household.

The quiet was broken by the slam of Quinn’s fist into the wall.

Pieces of plaster fell to the floor.

“They’ll charge us for that,” Julian murmured dispassionately.

Quinn paced to the opposite wall. “Perhaps Augustus killed Peg because she knew Aurelia was alive.”

Julian looked at his brother and hardened his heart. “Aurelia is dead.”

Quinn stared at him. “I saw her, Jules, I saw her on Bond Street today, and I saw her a fortnight ago. She was tall and slim. She had hair the color of a guinea, curls that blew in the wind, the same as Mother’s in that portrait that hangs in Greycourt. It was Aurelia.”

Julian held up his hands. “Before you hie off to search for a sister who may only be a will-o’-the-wisp, let us save the flesh-and-blood sister we have with us. Lucretia needs our help.”

Quinn scowled. “If this is some—”

“Augustus means to marry off Lucretia,” Julian said grimly. “He says he already has a bridegroom.”

“Jesus.” Quinn looked stunned.

“Exactly,” Julian said. “I haven’t told her yet. I’d hoped to have a plan for her escape before I broke the news, but…” He grimaced. The ideas were still spinning in his head. “In any case, I’ll have to tell her tomorrow.”

“Aye.” Quinn stood and paced. “What are your thoughts?”

Julian steepled his hands before him. “We must get her out of England—or at least London.”

“The duke’ll have spies watching her,” Quinn growled. “Probably watching us as well.”

“Yes.” Julian placed the tips of his fingers under his chin, thinking hard.

Quinn ran his hands through his untamed hair. “Christ. We don’t even know who the man is.”

Julian frowned. “Right. You’ll have to discover the man for us, and I—”

A rap came at the door.

“Enter,” Quinn said.

The door was opened wide by Vanderberg, Julian’s valet. Behind him was a maid bearing a huge tray of food.

Vanderberg bowed as the girl placed the tray on the table before Julian. “Forgive me for my tardiness.”

Julian thanked the maid and watched her depart before turning to his valet. Vanderberg was a short, slight man who should be earning much more than Julian could afford. “No matter. Have the kitchens prepare two baths.”

Vanderberg looked doubtful. “It may be some time before a bath will be ready.”

Julian waved him toward the door. “Nevertheless.”

The valet bowed and left.

Quinn sat and tore apart his bread. “Will you be able to pay him for much longer?”

“I hope so,” Julian replied. “Vanderberg is loyal.”

“That he is.” Quinn nodded. “What were you about to say before our supper arrived?”

“We have to find someone to help us with Lucretia.” Julian glanced up at his brother. “Someone we can trust.”

The next morning, Lucretia Greycourt wandered into the Whispers library as Elspeth was working. Whispers was Gideon Hawthorne’s house and, apparently, had been near empty when Messalina married him.

“Oh my goodness, whatever are you doing up at this hour?” Lucretia demanded, patting back a yawn.

Elspeth glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly nine of the clock.”

“Ghastly,” Lucretia muttered, sinking into a settee and draping her arm over her eyes.

There was a companionable sort of silence.

The library was a vast room lined with shelves waiting to be filled with books—empty save for the clock placed there so that Elspeth wouldn’t miss supper when she worked here.

Messalina had acquired at auction a huge collection of books from the estate of some deceased peer. Unfortunately, the collection had not been catalogued—or, for that matter, in any way sorted.

Naturally, Elspeth had offered to catalogue and shelve the library when she’d seen the crates of books. Messalina had accepted the offer with what had looked like relief and had even said Elspeth might sleep at Whispers during her work.

Now the floor was littered with stacks of books from one end of the room to the other, rather as if children had pretended the floor was a sea and the books islands and decided that they could traverse the space only by jumping from one pile to the next.

Elspeth had her own sorting method for a library, based loosely on the method Rikvi had taught her. Each stack represented books with a common theme. Perhaps Poetry or History or Tedious. Not of course that there weren’t some books that presented problems. The Aeneid , by Virgil, for instance, which could be placed in either of the first two categories and might, one could argue, be catalogued in the third as well.

Elspeth could muse over such fascinating conundrums for hours on end if given the opportunity.

However, she was organizing this delightful library for Messalina, not for herself, so she attempted to keep to her task.

Mostly.

As she sat on the floor sorting books, Elspeth mulled over the problem of returning to the Windemere library to continue her interrupted search. It had been pure luck that the Greycourt sisters had been invited to their aunt’s tea so soon after Elspeth had arrived in London. She couldn’t rely upon happenstance again.

Could she somehow insinuate herself into the duke’s household? The difficulty was that she’d already been introduced to London society as Lady Elspeth de Moray. She couldn’t pretend to be a maid or a cook or a widowed lady willing to be seduced by the duke.

Elspeth wrinkled her nose. Especially not the last.

What then did that leave her?

She could sneak into Windemere under cover of darkness and burgle the library! It would be difficult and a tad dangerous, but most probably it could be done without discovery.

Elspeth bit her lip. Freya would be most disapproving of such a scheme.

She sighed.

Obviously, she should think of a more conventional idea.

“Lady Elspeth.”

She started at the deep voice so close to her. She looked up to see Mr. Greycourt staring down at her, his gaze so intent she was surprised she hadn’t felt it immediately. He was frowning and seemed tense.

“Mr. Greycourt,” she replied sedately. Even though Freya had warned her against him, Elspeth couldn’t help a shiver of anticipation at the sight of him. “Good morning. Are you looking for your sisters?”

Behind her, Lucretia snuffled and settled into a gentle snore.

Mr. Greycourt pursed his lips—possibly in disapproval, though whether of her, Lucretia, or the entire world was hard to tell. “Yes.” He glanced at his sister asleep on the settee, and for a moment his face gentled. Then he looked back at Elspeth, and he was icy again. “What are you doing sitting on the floor?”

“Cataloguing books for Messalina,” she said, gesturing to the assortment of volumes lying all around her. “Do you know I’ve discovered four copies of Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler , and I still have those boxes to unpack.” She pointed at half a dozen crates stacked at the far end of the room. “Why would anyone purchase four copies of the same book?”

“I have no idea.” He glanced at the piles of books and then back at her, his eyes narrowed. “You seem to have an affection for libraries.”

He sounded suspicious.

She raised her brows. Was he always this wary? It must be terribly exhausting. “Well, yes. I do love libraries and books and reading, but then doesn’t everyone?”

“Not in my observation.”

Her cheery mood faltered a bit. “Perhaps, but you must, surely. After all, I met you in a library.”

“Which you had no right to be in.” He stared at her coldly.

Well, of course she hadn’t, but… “Does that mean,” she asked, concerned, “that you don’t enjoy books?”

His gray eyes flickered, and then his lips pressed together. “I haven’t the leisure to read for pleasure.”

She felt a sharp pain in her soul. “How can you possibly survive without literature?”

“Quite easily.” He sounded mocking.

“No,” she replied quietly. “I don’t believe you’re such a clod.”

His eyebrows winged up at that. “What?”

Elspeth spread her arms. “One can live without books. Birds live. Cats live. Even the best of dogs live. But only humans can soar on the words from a book. Stories fling us high into the clouds with imagination. Poems make hearts weep with emotion. Science stuns the mind with wonder.” She let her hands fall to her lap. “Without the stimulation of literature, you can live, yes. But your soul will be earthbound. A clod without imagination.”

“I…” He blinked as if taken aback for just an instant before assuming his usual haughty expression. “I assure you, my lady, I live perfectly well without books.”

“No.” She shook her head, pitying him, this severe man who thought he wanted for nothing. “No. You breathe and you move, but inside, in your mind, there is only gray. You don’t know what it is to soar.”

She locked eyes with him. The atmosphere was thick with tension as his nostrils flared, his thin lips parted, and his gray eyes turned stormy, and for a moment—only a moment—she thought that his expression was very similar to what his passion would look like.

Then, behind her, Lucretia groaned. “Are you arguing with my brother? Don’t bother. He always wins.”

Mr. Greycourt turned, and the moment was gone. “Good morning, Lucretia.”

Lucretia yawned extravagantly. “Good morning to you as well, Brother. I haven’t any idea where Messalina is, though I did see her at breakfast, so she must be somewhere about.”

He raised his brows. “What makes you think I’ve come to see only Messalina?”

Lucretia looked confused. “Haven’t you?”

Mr. Greycourt merely looked at her, a faint trace of what might be amusement about his eyes. “Actually, I have something I need to discuss—”

“We plan to leave soon,” Lucretia blurted.

“Do you?” Mr. Greycourt’s mouth thinned as he tapped his walking stick on the floor. “That works perfectly with my plans. I’ll accompany you to Bond Street.”

Lucretia bridled. “Bond Street? I never said we were going to Bond Street. And why would you accompany us in any case?”

That was rather rude. Elspeth held her breath, half expecting that Mr. Greycourt would scold her friend.

Instead he merely looked implacably at his younger sister.

Elspeth shivered as the library seemed to become stifling.

Then Lucretia made a moue and glanced away from her brother. “Oh, very well. We’ll make an outing to Bond Street.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Greycourt said softly.

“But Elspeth shall come with us,” Lucretia demanded. She turned to Elspeth. “That is, if you’d like to visit Bond Street?”

Of course she would! Elspeth had heard of it, but she’d yet to visit the famed shopping center. She smiled at Lucretia. “Oh, yes.”

“Then it’s settled,” Lucretia pronounced with a defiant glare at her brother.

Mr. Greycourt, for his part, was staring at Elspeth with what looked like ambivalence. “Very well,” he said slowly, then glanced at the clock. “Let us leave at eleven of the clock. Lucretia, please find Messalina and tell her.”

Lucretia muttered to herself but marched from the room obediently.

Elspeth looked down at her dusty hands. “I’d best go freshen up.”

A hand appeared before her face.

Startled, she looked up and found Mr. Greycourt standing before her.

He arched an ebony brow. “My lady?”

Elspeth blinked and put her hand in his.

He drew her to her feet with no effort but then pulled her closer so that they were nearly embracing. She could feel his breath on her lips when he spoke. “I hope, for your sake, that I can trust you.”

Elspeth pulled her hand free from his. “You can.”

She turned and left the room without further words, but she couldn’t help but wonder: what was Mr. Greycourt planning?