Chapter 1

Hannah Simmons held the ledger in her hand, fingers tingling with excitement at being so close to identifying the killer.

Secrets never revealed themselves easily, but Hannah would discover the evidence she needed. Her record was impeccable. Tonight would be no different, and none of the powdered toffs below would be any the wiser. Except the guilty party, of course.

Shadows danced and wavered, taunting Hannah as she squinted at the meticulously perfect script. More light would be much appreciated but she dared not risk a second candle.

Claws of desperation scraped along her nerves, tightening her muscles. She had been gone too long. She might be an inconsequential speck of brown muslin tossed amongst the glittering lords and ladies of the beau monde, but someone was bound to notice if she didn't return soon.

While adept at lying, inventing a viable reason for being nose-deep in Lord Geoffrey Bradford, the Earl of Sussex's financial records would be a challenge, even for Hannah. But she refused to leave empty-handed.

Even in the dim light, Hannah could make out intricate carvings in the mahogany bookshelves of cherubs chasing each other. An odd choice for such a sombre room, but Lord Bradford was known for his eccentricities.

His horrific moustache, for one. Enough to make any young miss shudder.

As if she had time for such delicate behaviour. She snorted. A lady's companion cresting the dark side of four and twenty was made of sterner stuff. Especially one with her particular training and skillset.

Best crack on with the task at hand.

She could say with certainty the Earl of Sussex was a fastidious bookkeeper, but a killer? She couldn't answer the question. Yet. Her mission demanded she find evidence before reaching a conclusion and exacting justice.

The clock ticked ominously in the corner. The longer she rifled through his desk, the greater risk of discovery.

So quit faffing about.

She turned another page. Her heartbeat quickened at the name written in neat, even print.

I found her!

Before she could copy down the information, the study door creaked open.

Quick as a whip, Hannah pinched the candle wick, extinguishing the flame. She ducked behind the desk, holding her breath. With any luck, it was just a nosy footman or a scandalous liaison.

The brightness in the hallway briefly highlighted a man's silhouette before he shut the door with a deafening click, plunging the room back into darkness.

Blazing hellfire!

Hannah didn't have time for interruptions. But the mystery man piqued her curiosity. A footman would carry a candle to light the way. Perhaps one of the gentlemen below was meeting a lady, or one of the servants was thieving from Lord Bradford. Regardless, Hannah couldn't wait around to find out. Nor could she pop out from behind the desk and create any kind of plausible excuse for her presence in the study.

Time to make a quiet exit.

A consummate professional, Hannah did not get caught. Ever. And this dunderhead, whomever he was, wasn't changing that. Quietly gathering up her skirts, she found the blade tied high on her thigh, just above the ribbon holding her hose in place. She slipped the knife free, taking comfort in the familiar heft. Hopefully, she wouldn't need the blade, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Rising from her crouched position, she paused. He couldn't see much in the dark room, and the brown material of her simple dress kept Hannah hidden in the shadows. While she preferred to fight, in this instance, flight was a cleaner exit strategy.

Bay windows were spaced evenly along the outer wall of the study. She could sneak behind one of the curtains shrouding the windows. They were on the second floor, but she could shimmy out if there was a ledge. It wouldn't be the first window she used for escape, nor the last.

A floorboard creaked to her left. Hannah moved to the right. Her leather boots, far too comfortable for fashion, slid silently over the thick rug as she inched closer to the wall. Reaching out her hand to avoid colliding into the cherub-carved bookcase, Hannah's fingers followed the grooves in the wood leading her to freedom.

The stranger paused in his movements. She held her breath.

Damnation!

Had he heard her? Impossible. Hannah moved like a ghost. Her training ensured that.

Her fingers met the soft, velvet curtain.

Huzzah!

Something large and solid crashed into her before she could pull the heavy material aside and slip behind it. She tumbled to the ground, her dagger flying from her hands and bouncing on the rug.

The sneaky bastard had tackled her. Hannah's arms and legs tangled with far more muscular limbs.

‘Who the devil are you?' His gravelled voice sent unexpected shivers through her. Not fear, but something akin to it. The man gripped her around the waist, rolling with her so she landed underneath him. His body, harder than a tempered blade and bloody heavy, pressed against hers. An unfamiliar warmth bloomed low in her belly.

‘Bollocks!' Hannah hissed before taking inspiration from the curse. She twisted, seeking space to ram her knee between his legs. Missing her mark, she hit him somewhere on his inner thigh.

The man grunted as he thwarted her second attempt to smash his bollocks by twisting his torso away and straddling her with his legs, pinning her pelvis to the ground with his own.

Hannah recognised his skills as a fighter too late. Before she could aim for his vulnerable parts – eyes, throat, belly – he shackled Hannah's wrists in his large hands.

Pulling her arms over her head, he lifted his upper body away to see her.

Well, this is ridiculous. I'll never live this down if the duchess finds out.

They were both breathing hard from their struggles, a task made imminently more difficult for Hannah by her corset. She was acutely aware of his body pressed against hers. While she should be pulling away, her body wanted to arch into his. Highly alarming.

The curtain had been pulled open in their struggles. A beam of moonlight illuminated his face. Thick curls fell over a wide forehead, and shadows didn't hide the slight bend in the bridge of his nose. Hooded eyes narrowed in appraisal. Handsome was too gentle a term for such severe features in a face not easily forgotten.

Lieutenant General Robert Killian, Duke of Covington.

Bugger!

A decorated war hero and honoured guest of Lord Bradford's dinner party, he was also a man she had been explicitly told to avoid.

Lieutenant General Killian was dangerous. To her and the mission.

‘You're a woman!' His voice registered shock, but he didn't release her.

‘Last time I checked, yes.' Hannah bit her lip. She probably shouldn't have said that. To a duke, no less.

‘What in the devil is going on here?' Lord Killian's dark-green eyes looked almost black in the moonlight as recognition sharpened his gaze.

‘Good evening, Lieutenant General.' Hannah tried for an innocent smile. After all, she hadn't been caught doing anything specifically nefarious, merely found in the wrong place at an odd time. Men rarely suspected women of truly devious behaviour. The pontificating idiots didn't think the fairer sex smart enough to be treacherous. Thank heavens she'd kept her fighting skills hidden. Hannah could act the innocent fool and dupe the duke.

She softened her voice to a breathless whimper. ‘Goodness, but you frightened me. Release me, Your Grace, and we can conduct this conversation from an erect position.'

Lord Killian's jaw ticked as his lips hardened in a determined line.

For the second time in as many minutes, Hannah regretted her impetuous tongue. He was a duke accustomed to doing as he pleased, and they were alone in a rather compromising position. She didn't need to go putting ideas into his head about the erectness of anything.

His deep voice rumbled through her like a caress, intimately soft. ‘You didn't seem frightened while attempting to knee me right in the… what was the charming term you used? Ah yes, "bollocks", I believe. You display some unusual abilities for a lady's companion, Miss Simmons.' He didn't release her hands or attempt to stand.

Bloody hell! He knows my name.

Which meant he paid attention. To her. Not good.

I can fix this. I just need to remind him of my insignificance.

A simple smile would suffice as an acceptably diminutive response. But something about the man goaded her. ‘I only did what any woman would when attacked, Your Grace. Perhaps it is your behaviour that deserves censure, and not my own.'

‘Really?' The duke leaned closer, inhaling sharply.

Dear God, is he sniffing me?

And why did that cause a flutter of excitement? Most irregular and completely unacceptable. Hannah ignored the strange rush of heat spreading from her belly along her limbs. ‘There is nothing unusual about me, I assure you. Now, if you would please get off…'

The insufferable man raised a condescending eyebrow. ‘On the contrary, Miss Simmons. I find you shockingly unique.'

Damnation.

Unique things were noticed. Not good.

Hannah cleared her throat. ‘Quite honestly, I'm flattered, Your Grace. But let me reassure you, I'm completely common and very easily forgotten by someone as grand as you.' When all else failed, appeal to a man's vanity. It was usually a successful trick. Though the tart edge to her voice sounded more insulting than flattering.

She shouldn't let the man provoke her. Yet, inexplicably, she wanted to pit her will against his and see who emerged the victor. Completely untoward.

What is wrong with me tonight?

‘I remember everything, Miss Simmons.'

Hannah rolled her eyes. ‘I see male hyperbole is still alive and well.'

‘You dare to doubt a duke?'

‘I dare to doubt you. What kind of duke pins a lady to the floor and refuses to release her? Hardly gentlemanly behaviour.' Despite her efforts to remain calm, her awareness of their position became increasingly acute.

His hands were rough and warm around her wrists. His heavy body created friction in peculiar places, quickly morphing into pleasurable tingles. The scent of bergamot blended with whiskey, mint, and leather in a distinctly masculine aroma.

Blast and bother. Now I'm sniffing him.

Judging by the tick in his jaw and the flex of his fingers around her wrists, he noticed.

‘Dukes rarely behave like gentlemen.' The darkness in his gaze deepened, and a thrill of fear stiffened Hannah's spine.

He was a powerful man. She had given him a considerable advantage. To free herself now would require incapacitating him which she could easily manage, but questions would be asked if the duke was found unconscious and bleeding in the study.

Serves him right for being so gallingly obtuse.

Thankfully, he relieved her of having to make a choice. As quickly as he tackled her, Lord Killian released her wrists and rose, gripping her hands and pulling her upright. While he still stood too close for propriety, at least his body no longer pressed against hers.

‘I should go.' Hannah backed toward the door.

‘What exactly are you doing in Lord Bradford's study in the first place, Miss Simmons?'

Hannah raised her brows in mock innocence. ‘One might ask the same of you, Your Grace.' She let the silence sharpen between them like a blade. Just before it cut, she shrugged, breaking the tension. ‘I was looking for the retiring room and became lost.'

‘Liar.' Lord Killian's gaze pierced through her.

‘Ladies don't lie.'

‘Ladies don't use "bollocks" in conversation either.'

‘That depends entirely on the lady.' Hannah narrowed her eyes. ‘What were you doing here, Your Grace?'

‘Rather bold of you to question a duke, Miss Simmons. Should I be impressed or infuriated?'

‘Neither. In fact, I think it prudent we forget this entire incident.' She turned and unlatched the door.

‘Are you in the habit of telling dukes what to do?' His voice was devoid of inflection.

‘Hardly, sir. I'm rather in the habit of avoiding dukes altogether. Something I shall endeavour to accomplish with more success in the future.' She glanced over her shoulder at him, his plains and edges illuminated by the moonlight. He really was a dashing figure with wide shoulders, powerful legs, and a trim waist.

Devils are always dashing.

‘You seem a woman accustomed to success, Miss Simmons. But something tells me your luck is about to change.' His lips curled in a suggestive smile, transforming his face entirely from arresting to devastatingly handsome.

A gauntlet had been thrown. One she couldn't resist.

‘I create my own luck, Your Grace.' Before she could stop herself, she winked. Turning in a swirl of brown skirts, she slipped out of the study and shut the door behind her.

Bloody hell. I shouldn't have done that.

She'd blundered this mission. The duchess would not be pleased. Neither would the Queen.

Lieutenant General Robert Killian, Duke of Covington, honoured war hero, leader of men, killer of tyrants, and spy for the prime minister, was well and truly flummoxed. Outfoxed by a diminutive woman in brown muslin who wielded a knife. He bent to pick up the incriminating blade from where it had landed under the couch.

‘Who exactly are you, Miss Simmons?' he whispered into the empty room. A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. He was barking at the moon if he expected any answers in the hollow spaces of Lord Bradford's deserted study. But she had been looking for something before he interrupted her. Which was precisely why Killian was there himself. It was a capital place to search for evidence.

But what on earth was a lady's companion doing looking for evidence?

He walked over to the desk, now illuminated by silver moonlight. An abandoned candle still smoked on the marble tabletop, emitting a pleasant blend of smoke and beeswax. He picked up the candle, walked briskly to the banked fire, and used a burning coal to light the wick.

Returning to the desk, he studied the open ledger: a column of neatly printed names with numbers adjacent. Wages, judging by the amounts. One name jumped out at him like a striking snake.

‘Why is Miss Simmons interested in the wages of Lord Bradford's household staff? And why would she pause on this page?' The room remained annoyingly silent, refusing to reveal its secrets. Killian shook his head, baffled by the mysterious motivations of the intriguing woman. When was the last time a woman had drawn such interest from him?

He should return to the drawing room. A prospect far more enticing when he thought of Miss Simmons. She had been in his vicinity all evening yet managed to escape his notice.

Fascinating.

There was more to this wallflower than copper hair and the intoxicating scent of orange blossoms and vanilla. His sixth sense urged him to pursue her. The same silent voice that had saved him from innumerable perils during the Anglo-Afghan war. The voice prompting him to follow loose ends, thereby thwarting three assassination attempts on Queen Victoria in the two years since his military retirement. The voice whispering to him now about the petite woman in a dull, brown dress.

Miss Simmons is far more complex than she appears.

He had no desire to sip port and smoke cigars with the men invited to Lord Bradford's dinner party. Nor did he wish to join the ladies at their whist tables, but he wouldn't mind another verbal sparring match with the prickly lady's companion. Or a tumble on the carpet.

Absolutely not.

Killian was not immune to the charms of the fairer sex, but it had been years since his body reacted to a woman with such fierce and demanding need. That was troubling enough, but his lack of control was even more concerning. He almost pressed his advantage when she was trapped beneath him. Unconscionable. He was a man of honour, or at least, a man desperately trying to reclaim his honour. Taking liberties with an innocent woman was unacceptable, especially when those liberties had not been requested.

But if she were to request them…

Impossible. He would not ruin a woman who had no hope of becoming more to him than a passing pleasure. While her protector, Lady Philippa Winterbourne, was among the most wealthy and powerful individuals within the beau monde – even rumoured to be friends with the Queen – Hannah Simmons was a commoner. The idea of a liaison with her was laughable. And yet, when he exited the study and clipped down the winding staircase, a thrill of unexpected anticipation propelled him into the drawing room.

‘Killian! Where did you wander off to, eh?' Lord Geoffrey Bradford's words emerged from a cloud of fragrant cigar smoke. He sported an obscenely lustrous moustache that he was prone to stroking like a sleek cat. ‘Bothering my maids, you rogue.' The older gentleman burst into rasping laughter that ended with a coughing fit.

‘Hardly,' Killian answered, joining his host and Lord Cavendale, Duke of Landington. The two men were congregating near a massive hearth at the room's far end. The hot, summer evening precluded a fire. Killian was grateful the windows had been opened to usher in a cool breeze. It did little to dispel the miasma of fragrances emanating from the ladies in the room. Lavender, rosewater, and lily warred with one another much as the women battled for attention from the eligible bachelors in their company. Killian's wealth, title, and military record made him a highly coveted prize amongst the ladies. He shuddered at the thought.

Alfred Cavendale, Lord Cavendale's eldest son, joined the trio of men. ‘Lieutenant General Killian, I was surprised to hear you were attending tonight. Shouldn't a man with your military reputation be off leading innocent men to their deaths in some godforsaken land? Oh, but you've retired, haven't you? A stroke of luck for future solders.' Alfred's grip was firm as he shook Killian's hand, and his gaze narrowed with scorn.

Killian ground his teeth together, refusing to allow the rage to surface. He deserved Alfred's contempt after failing to save the man's brother.

‘Alfred.' Lord Cavendale's brows drew down in stern censure.

Alfred turned away from his father and sipped his glass of whiskey.

Lord Cavendale's focus shifted to Killian. His eyes softened. ‘Please accept my apologies on behalf of my eldest. Alfred has never understood the harsher realities of war. While Patrick was fighting for his country, Alfred was wasting his time and a good deal of my money at the gaming hells showing his wastrel friends how bad he is at bluffing, weren't you, boy?' Lord Cavendale's lips turned down as though he tasted something sour.

Alfred continued to stare at the barren fireplace, but Killian saw the younger man flinch at his father's words.

‘Age has taught me much. Cruel and terrible things happen to us, and sometimes there is no one to blame.' Lord Cavendale's gaze speared Killian, seeing more than Killian wanted to reveal. ‘Least of all the courageous few who take on the burden of leadership.' He tipped his chin at Killian, a silent gesture of affirmation.

Lord Cavendale's kind words only intensified the flames of guilt licking at Killian's soul. He doubted Patrick's father would feel the same way if he knew the truth. Patrick Cavendale had died broken, bloodied, and disfigured in a stinking pit while Killian remained untouched by the enemy soldiers who had held them captive. He had failed Patrick. He had failed all of his men, and the shame consumed him. Killian glanced again at Alfred.

Goddammit, he looks like his brother.

But where Patrick had been an eager young man, his brother was far more arrogant and bitter.

What should Killian expect after the sudden loss of Alfred's younger brother? Alfred's undisguised derision was completely justified. In some ways, his hatred was easier to bear than Lord Cavendale's forgiveness, as Killian deserved the former and would never be worthy of the latter.

Despite the cool breeze washing in from the open window carrying a sweet scent of hyacinth, sweat gathered and trickled down the small of Killian's back.

‘Lieutenant General, I say, are you quite alright?' Alfred raised a brow and lifted his chin, managing to look down at Killian though he was several inches shorter. ‘You've gone quite pale.'

Killian swallowed the disgrace rising like bile in his throat. He straightened his posture, surreptitiously wiping away perspiration from his upper lip and gave Alfred a curt nod.

Lord Cavendale and his surviving son were the only reasons Killian hesitated to accept this mission. Facing the family of a soldier he had so horrifically failed threatened to unman him. Unfortunately, when the prime minister asked a favour, the only acceptable answer was, ‘Yes, sir.' And surely Killian deserved this penance for a sin he could never hope to absolve.

Lord Cavendale jumped in, saving Killian the need to respond. ‘I was just speaking to Bradford about your work in the House of Lords, Killian, trying to get the Wounded Soldiers Relief Bill passed this session.' Lord Cavendale turned his back on his son and clapped Bradford on the shoulder. ‘We're rather impressed, aren't we Geoffrey?'

‘Ah, yes.' Lord Bradford nodded at Killian. ‘Jolly good of you to keep the fight up for our boys who've come back from the war so broken.'

Before parliament recessed for the summer season, both Bradford and Cavendale had put pressure on several of their cronies in the House of Lords to back Killian's proposed law.

Killian tipped his chin down. The Wounded Soldiers Relief Bill was the least he could do for the men he had failed. He didn't deserve anyone's praise.

Lord Cavendale laid a heavy hand on Killian's shoulder, inadvertently dropping ash from his cigar on the inky blackness of Killian's jacket. Acrid smoke choked Killian. He needed to get away from these men and all the memories they were stirring up.

Killian cleared his suddenly tight throat. ‘We all do what we can. Speaking of soldiers, Major General Drake looks like he could do with some rescuing from the whist tables.' He tipped his chin in the direction of the gaming tables. ‘Perhaps I should lend a hand to a brother in arms. Excuse me, gentlemen.' Retreat was sometimes the best option as courage failed him once more.

Brushing the ash off his shoulder, Killian strode across the drawing room, taking deep breaths through his nose, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he traversed the polished, parquet floor. Control was a tenuous strand he clung to with a death grip.

The ladies were bunched together at the whist tables like a bouquet of wildflowers in multihued dresses. Major General Drake stuck out like a thorn amongst the petals. A massive scar cut through his face, enhancing his monstrous appearance.

As Killian strode closer to his friend, he couldn't stop his gaze seeking out Miss Simmons. She sat several paces away from the other young ladies. Perched on the edge of a hardback chair set against the wall, she wouldn't be expected to join the titled ladies as they played cards. Lady Philippa Winterbourne, the Duchess of Dorset, reclined next to Miss Simmons on a chaise, flicking her fan like a cat might flick its tail.

If the seemingly demure lady's companion was trying to fade into the background, she couldn't have chosen a more advantageous spot than adjacent to the duchess.

While the ladies at the whist table were a garden in bloom, Lady Winterbourne was an exotic hothouse orchid. A renowned beauty, despite her years, she drew the attention of any man with breath still in his lungs and blood pumping through his veins. Jet-black hair with a few streaks of silver was piled high in an intricate coiffure, contrasting starkly with the simple chignon worn by Miss Simmons. Lady Philippa wore a tailored gown of silk and lace, resplendent in deep tones of black and purple, while Miss Simmons was draped in a shapeless dress the colour of the earth. Yet it was the plain Miss Simmons, not her glamorous patroness, who captivated Killian.

Leaning closer to Lady Winterbourne, Miss Simmons whispered something low, her mouth barely moving. Killian was caught by the full shape of her lips.

No one in the drawing room would guess the dowdy lady's companion kept a wicked blade somewhere on her person. Or that she swore like a man and fought like a hellion. They wouldn't know she smelled of citrus and cream. He wanted to pass by the whist tables and stand next to Miss Simmons. Close enough to feel the heat of her. Close enough that she couldn't ignore him. But that was beyond the pale. He was a gentleman. He never broke the rules of propriety. Unless he were in the heart of battle where no rules existed beyond survival.

He called upon years of discipline to force his steps away from Miss Simmons and toward his friend at the whist table.

Lord Drake saw his approach. ‘Ladies, I hate to unbalance our numbers for the game, but I believe Lieutenant General Killian and I have important matters to discuss.' He stood hastily, nearly knocking over his chair as the table shuddered.

Rich laughter erupted from one of the women. ‘By all means, take your leave, sir. There's no chance of you winning here.'

‘Indeed,' he gritted. He towered over the women, executing a bow of military precision before facing Killian. ‘Dear God, man. Please tell me you've come to rescue me.' Drake spoke under his breath as he shook Killian's hand. ‘That woman,' he nodded toward a lady skilfully shuffling cards, ‘is a harridan, for certain.'

Killian followed his friend's gaze. The woman in question looked to be firmly on the shelf. She had flaming red hair in a riot of curls. Her figure was too generous, and her features too bold to be considered beautiful. Still, her voice was pleasantly low, and mischief sparkled in her chocolate eyes as she leaned over to speak to the pale blonde lady sitting nearest her at the table.

‘Things must be desperate when you seek rescue from such a bountiful gathering of feminine grace and beauty.' Killian smiled at his old friend.

‘Hardly.' Drake touched his scar in a habitual gesture. ‘More like a gathering of feminine spikes and daggers. I can't believe I let you drag me to this dinner party. I could be sitting in front of my fire, sipping whiskey in blessed silence.' As a counterpoint to Drake's words, the ladies broke into loud laughter.

‘You've spent too long sitting in front of your fire. You're getting fat and lazy.' Killian glanced at his friend's flat stomach and shook his head in mock disgust. ‘The prime minister needs us to ferret out a killer, and that's exactly what we shall do. Have you no sense of duty left?'

‘None. It was stripped from me along with my dignity and any possible happiness.' Drake stretched his lips into the semblance of a smile made gruesome by the pulling of skin and scar tissue. The stark resentment in his glare belied any humour in his words.

Anger and depression were constant companions for soldiers returned from war. Especially those who experienced the kind of torture Killian and Drake endured in Afghanistan. Killian's torment was of the mind, Drake's was of the body, but neither had healed without being irrevocably altered.

Killian knew inactivity and brooding was food for the fire that would consume him. Activity and distraction afforded some relief from the constant memories. He suspected it was the same for Drake. At least this mission would give them something to focus on beyond the monsters in their past.

‘I believe there is another player on this field.' Killian nodded his head toward Miss Simmons. ‘A fellow detective, perhaps.'

Major General Drake shifted his body and glanced in the direction Killian indicated. ‘A woman? Are you mad?'

‘She was snooping in Lord Bradford's study just now. And she had a knife on her.'

‘Those hardly signify as reasons to assume she is investigating a crime. You can't possibly expect a woman to have the skills necessary for such dangerous work.'

‘Perhaps. It's just a feeling I have.'

‘Feelings only cloud judgment. When feelings become involved, your logic and intelligence fly out the bloody window.' Drake twisted his neck, popping the vertebrae. ‘Whatever feelings you have left are best kept buried deep in the blackness, Killian. You know this well.'

‘Instinct then. Surely, we can still trust that.' Killian glanced again at Miss Simmons. Her face was tilted down, but her eyes were focused on him. The air in the room grew impossibly thin, stretched tight by unseen hands. She hastily returned her gaze to Lady Winterbourne, and the spell broke like glass in the flames.

‘Facts. Facts can be trusted.' Drake rocked back on his heels.

‘Then facts we shall find.' Killian forced his attention back to his friend. He clapped his hand on Drake's shoulder. ‘Facts leading us to the killer.'

Despite Drake's warning, Killian had a feeling Miss Simmons would play her own part in this dangerous game of discovery. And he looked forward to it.