Chapter Six

Despite returning to the birthday celebration later than intended, Rosemary's absence was not detected. Her grandmother did not even comment on her change in hair, other than to say that it had turned frizzy with the heat and more bandoline was in order.

It was strange, how observant Lady Ellinwood could be at times and how oblivious she was at others. Once she had made an enormous fuss–and nearly fired a servant–because her son's portrait, which hung above the mantel in the drawing room, had somehow shifted half an inch to the right. But when her granddaughter hid an injured hedgehog in an empty chamber pot for the better part of a month, she hadn't noticed at all.

To this day, Rosemary suspected that her grandmother had known about Mr. Trinkets…but had decided, for reasons unknown, to look the other way whenever she heard scurrying and loud chirping.

It went without saying that Lady Ellinwood was a complicated woman, her iron demeanor forged by the loss of her husband, son, and daughter-in-law. If she was too strict on occasion, too overbearing, Rosemary understood it was only because she was being protective. And if she'd never made any attempt to coddle her granddaughter, or hug her goodnight, or read her stories or kiss her bruised knees, what was that but another type of protection? A preparation, rather, for the cold, unforgiving world that Rosemary would be forced to face as she grew older. A world that embraced those who swam with the current, but didn't quite know what to do with the odd ducks who paddled against it.

That night, after tucking Sir Reginald into his box stuffed with bits of cotton and leaves and his favorite toy, a miniature bear that Rosemary had lovingly stitched herself, she combed out her hair and reflected on her conversation with Evie. A conversation that had unearthed a few complications of her own. The largest of which being the envy she'd felt…and the tender nerve that had been exposed when she realized that despite having found her sisters, there was a piece of her that was still on the outside looking in.

She was honored to be Evie's bridesmaid. Elated to be able to participate in what was sure to be a beautiful day filled with many blessings. But she also couldn't help but think… why not me? Why am I unlovable? Why am I forever the one left out and left for last?

Courtship, love, marriage–or the notable lack thereof–had never bothered her before. A wise choice, as it turned out, for now it was all that her mind wanted to dwell on. But self-pity was not a quality that Rosemary permitted herself to have, and with a brisk yank of the brush through her curls that would have undoubtedly made Evie cringe, she cast such thoughts aside and climbed into bed.

After a long, emotionally draining day, sleep was anything but elusive. As her eyelids grew heavy and her breathing evened, she tumbled straight into slumber. Dreaming, as she had every night since coming to London, of a duke with haunted gray eyes and the devil's own smile...

London was exactly as Sterling remembered it. A loud, cluttered juxtaposition of new money and old, purity and sin, decorum and decadence. Over by Fleet Ditch, the poor worked themselves to death in factories that spewed black coal dust into the air while in Grosvenor Square the wealthy sipped champagne out of crystal flutes and congratulated themselves on their success despite having done nothing to earn it. In a ballroom filled with debutantes and their eager mothers, a flashed ankle might mean social ruin, while in the infamous pleasure gardens orgies took place under a full moon.

Before Sebastian died, Sterling had navigated the narrow path between sainthood and sinner with expert skill. He'd cultivated a reputation as a perfect gentleman in public while allowing his wilder appetites to be sated in private. The expectations were never as high for a second born son, but he'd met them nevertheless, as much to avoid disappointing his big brother as to maintain his good name. Then the duel happened and, in his grief, he didn't just fall off the bloody wagon.

He plunged.

Headfirst.

Into waters dark and deep.

There was a part of him–a terrifyingly large part–that wouldn't mind drowning in that water. That would be perfectly fine with closing his eyes and holding his breath and sinking all the way to the bottom never to rise above the surface again.

Hell, he was already halfway there. Slowly but surely, he'd been slipping a few inches further every day since Sebastian left him. Smiling above the waves even as his legs failed to tread water underneath. Another few weeks, a month, maybe half a year, and he'd be too far gone to ever claw his way back up to the light.

The only time he'd felt like he wasn't on the verge of succumbing to the inky depths of oblivion was when he had been at Hawkridge Manor.

With Rosemary.

Fucking, gambling, drinking…he'd turned to every vice he could think of in the hopes of either yanking himself out of the water or putting himself out of his misery once and for all. Anything but this constant, unabating state of nothingness .

Nothing but the weight of his guilt crushing down on him and the gnawing sounds that the demons made as they picked at his bones.

And then…then there was Rosemary.

His proverbial light in the darkness. His squirrel-loving wallflower who drank gin and drove carriages and boldly asked for kisses in the library. Who had been on the brink of telling him that she loved him before he'd had the good sense to stop her.

The only noble thing he had done these six years past.

Since she left, he'd told himself– commanded himself–to stop thinking about her.

To stop walking into rooms in search of the faintest remaining hint of citrus.

To forget the sweet, heavenly taste of her lips.

To forget he had ever met her.

Which was exactly why he'd come to London. Not because he knew that she was here as well. That was so absurd that it didn't even deserve comment. No, their being in the same place at the same time was a complete coincidence. He had come on the advice of his sister. Whom he hadn't listened to in over half a decade, but in this instance she was right. If he had any prayer of staying out of Newgate, he had to rehabilitate his image. Beginning with a successful Season.

Balls, dinner parties, attending theater shows where women were fully clothed…everything he detested but needed to do if he wanted to show what a shining pillar of Society he was. A shining pillar that was responsible for the death of his brother, but couldn't possibly have murdered his mistress. Whatever bloody sense that made. But Sarah seemed to think it would work, and who was he to disagree with his beloved little sister?

So he was here.

In London.

The world's largest city where the odds of bumping into one person out of a million were…one in a million.

Which was why, if sometime during his ridiculous redemption tour, his path just happened to cross with Rosemary's, it could hardly be considered his fault now could it?

He was just doing what his sister had asked of him.

Loyal, obedient brother that he was.

To avoid the inevitable fanfare and speculation that would accompany his return to High Society, Sterling arrived in the wee hours of the morning and stumbled, drunk on gin and exhaustion, into his bed where he slept for the better part of three days.

He would have slept four, had he not been roused by an incessant pounding at the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered, and nearly walked naked out his bedchamber before he remembered to grab a robe. He was immediately joined by his valet in the hallway, whose flustered appearance was atypical of the sixty-year-old servant's generally stoic, unflappable disposition.

"I sincerely apologize, Your Grace. They refused to leave or even give a card. I tried repeatedly to have them sent away, but–"

"It's all right, Higgins," Sterling interrupted, waving off the valet's profuse apology with a careless jerk of his arm. "I'm up now, and I can see what all the damned ruckus is for myself." So saying, he paused at the open banister overlooking the two-story foyer and studied who was waiting for him down below. A man and a woman, both dressed in the plain, sensible clothes of the working class.

"Do you know them?" Higgins said anxiously. "I can have the constable called–"

"No need for that. The constable is already here." Leaving his valet at the top of the steps, Sterling descended the staircase in a loose, lanky stride as he tightened the knot around his waist that was holding his robe closed. He'd no sooner reach the bottom than he found himself besieged by Thomas Kincaid and his pretty red-haired wife, Joanna, who he'd not yet met but immediately recognized as she shared enough similar traits with her sister, Evie, who he had met and attempted to seduce. An endeavor that had obviously failed, as she was now engaged to be married to Lord Weston.

"You can go," he said, squinting blearily at Kincaid through bloodshot eyes. "It's too early for business. But your wife can stay, as it's never too early for pleasure." A lazy grin slid across his mouth as he openly admired the detective's American bride. She was taller than Evie, with a more willowy build, but the sisters had the same blue eyes and striking, bred-into-the-bone beauty. "You don't have another sibling, do you?"

"As it so happens I do. Her name is Claire, and I wouldn't let her within an ocean's reach of you." Although Joanna's words were stern, the twitch of her lips revealed a strong sense of humor lurking behind her austere fa?ade. A good thing, as Kincaid was far too practical by half and could greatly benefit from a touch of frivolity in his life. "You're every bit as disreputable as my husband warned me you'd be, Your Grace." Forgoing the more traditional and ladylike curtsy, she stuck out her hand. "It's wonderful to finally meet you."

"I'd say the same," Sterling said with an amused glance at Kincaid after he'd shaken her hand, "if your husband wasn't currently looking as if he wanted to take out his pistol and shoot me with it."

"Strangle, not shoot," Kincaid remarked with the mild calm of a man who was anything but. "It'd take too long to get the blood out of the marble."

"Now that pleasantries have been exchanged, shall we adjourn to the parlor?" Joanna suggested brightly. "There's much we need to discuss." She used her elbow to give her husband a not-very-discreet nudge in the ribs. "With our paying client."

Kincaid's eyes, a clear, intelligent amber behind round spectacles, remained pinned on Sterling. "Our paying client should have remained in the country as I advised him to."

"Too many birds. They kept waking me up at ungodly hours." He lifted a brow. "Is that a feather sticking out, Kincaid, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Joanna snickered. "Make that two ocean's distance."

Once they were settled in the parlor, a large room with mahogany paneling that had always been a bit too somber for Sterling's taste, he and Joanna sat across from each other on matching divans in emerald velvet while Kincaid remained standing, his arms behind his back and a frown fixed on his face.

"Go on," Sterling sighed. "Best get the lecture of the way. I should have stayed at Hawkridge Manor as you told me, blah blah blah. But I'm not a bloody prisoner, am I?"

"You're in the presence of a lady," said Kincaid. "Please mind your language."

"No ladies here," Joanna put in cheerfully. Cupping a hand to her mouth, she leaned forward out of her seat. "Besides, I've said much worse."

Kincaid grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and then in a louder voice said, "I knew I shouldn't have brought you with me."

"Maybe I shouldn't have brought you ," Joanna said with a haughty toss of her head. "Ever consider that?"

"I like her," Sterling decided. He nodded at Joanna. "I like you."

"The feeling, Your Grace, is mutual."

"Please, call me Sterling."

"Don't call him that." Kincaid jabbed a finger at Sterling. "And you, stop flirting with my damned wife."

Sterling held up his hands, the very picture of degenerate innocence. "I'd never dream of it." He lowered his voice. Added just a touch of consternation to it. "Please mind your language. We're in the presence of a lady."

Joanna snickered.

Kincaid growled.

Sterling sat back and grinned. Reaching for the coffee that a maid had brought in on a silver serving platter along with a smattering of breads still warm from the oven and various sides of jam, he raised a cup of the black brew to his mouth.

And nearly spat it out all over the antique Aubusson rug.

"Dear God," he shuddered. "That's terrible."

"What's wrong with it?" Joanna asked, red brows collecting over the bridge of her nose in concern. "I found mine quite lovely compared to the sludge that…ah…someone I know makes."

"There's no whiskey in it," Sterling said, scowling at his cup as he returned it to the platter. "There's supposed to be whiskey."

"It's half past nine in the morning," she said blankly.

"Your point being?"

"Maybe it would be best to hold off on the liquor until you hear what we've recently discovered," Kincaid cut in. Sitting beside his wife, he slanted her a sideways glance out of the corners of his spectacles and frowned. "My coffee isn't that bad, is it?"

"The worst I've ever tasted." She patted his knee. "But that's neither here nor there, as I didn't marry you for your culinary skills."

As he watched the newlyweds, Sterling felt an unexpected pang in his heart. At least, where his heart would have been if he still had one.

Love was never something he aspired to. Not since he had lost Sebastian, at any rate. Any traces of genuine feeling he had left in him these days was reserved strictly for Sarah. He didn't plan to take a wife. Mayhap not even another mistress, given what had happened to Eloise. Of course, he wasn't going to give up a good rutting now and again. He was dead inside, not insane. But there was a marked difference between blindly fucking for the sake of pleasure and the sweet, subtle affection that Kincaid and Joanna so clearly shared.

Unbidden, his mind conjured a picture of Rosemary. As sharp and vivid as if she were sitting right next to him with her hand on his knee. In her adorably oversized clothes and ugly bonnet, her blue-gray eyes filled with warmth and adoration and the tiniest inkling of exasperation.

They were both smiling. Laughing over a private joke that only the two of them understood. And he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that he loved her. He loved her, and she loved him, and they were happy.

Annoyed by the sudden and unwanted direction his thoughts had taken, Sterling picked up his whiskeyless coffee and drained it to the dregs in an attempt to clear his head of useless, fanciful imaginings.

Because even if he wanted to fall in love (which he didn't), and even if he wanted to get married (which he wouldn't), it would never be to the likes of Miss Rosemary Stanhope.

She deserved the moon and every bloody star in the sky. While he…he was a comet hurtling towards earth, burning everything in its path on the way down.

"Well?" he snapped, more forcefully than he'd intended, but who the devil cared? It was all meaningless, anyways. Even if his name was cleared, he wouldn't be any further ahead than he'd been before. Sebastian would still be dead. His life would still be a crack all pile of shite. And his future…his future would be as empty tomorrow as it was today. "What have you come here at the crack of dawn to tell me? What is it you've discovered? Something large, I hope, given the inordinate sum I've paid you thus far."

A smaller man prone to intimidation might have cringed, or stuttered, or even gotten up and left. But Kincaid was neither small, nor easily intimidated, and even though his lack of a title put him far below Sterling in the all-important British social hierarchy, he met the duke's harsh gaze without so much as a flinch.

" You came to me for help. Or have you forgotten?"

Shame collected in a ball of red heat at the nape of Sterling's neck. Unable to meet Kincaid's cool stare, he glanced to the side as his hands curled into fists and he wondered, not for the first time, how he'd gotten here. To this place of bleakness and rage and hopelessness. When he wasn't sloshed, he was angry. When he wasn't angry, he was…he was nothing. Nothing but a shell of a man pretending to be something he wasn't for the sake of people who didn't give a fuck about him. And those few who did–Sarah, Kincaid, even Rosemary–he pushed away. For surely it was better for them to hate him than to see what he'd really become.

"I've not forgotten," he said stiffly. "Nor did I come back to London on some heedless whim. My sister encouraged my return, as she maintains the na?ve belief that my reputation can be salvaged."

"Interestingly, your sister is why we've come here today."

Everything inside of Sterling went hot and then freezing cold. He gripped the curved armrest of the divan with such strength that his nails punctured the velvet, and would have leapt to his feet if there was anywhere for him to go. "What's wrong? Has she been taken again? Why didn't you–"

"Lady Sarah is fine," Joanna interrupted. "Perfectly fine. I spoke with her just yesterday. We had an enjoyable conversation over the most delightful pastries filled with cream and–"

"I don't think the duke cares about the pastries, my love," said Kincaid, his gaze on Sterling, who had sagged limply into his seat as the blood began to once again pump through his veins. "Joanna set up a meeting with your sister because we think there may be a connection to her kidnapping and Eloise's disappearance."

A connection? The two incidents had occurred years apart. He still remembered the fear that had sliced through him when he received word that Sarah's carriage had been besieged by highwaymen. Reading that ransom note had cut him to the bone. The fear. The horror. The bloody unfairness of it all. How much was one family expected to endure? First their parents, then Sebastian, and now Sarah. Pure, innocent, adorable Sarah. The one person in the world he'd been charged with to keep safe. And he'd held a crudely written letter threatening her life in his hands.

The bastards had demanded a hundred pounds for her safe return.

Sterling would have given them ten thousand.

Ten thousand and his own life, if it came to that.

It hadn't. The three days they'd held her were a blur, even now. He had paid them at once and then paced a hole through the rug in this very parlor as he waited for them to uphold their side of the bargain. Except they hadn't, and when the clock ticked half past midnight, he'd gone straight to Scotland Yard where he had met a constable with wire-rimmed spectacles and a serious air about him that had reassured Sterling despite the panic clawing at his insides.

He had handed Kincaid the note, told him all that he knew, and then waited some more.

For the rest of the night and all the next day he hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, and hadn't even drank. When Sarah was safely delivered, he held her in his arms and wept. Only the third time in his life that he'd cried. The first two due to overwhelming grief, this time out of sheer, unspeakable relief.

"What kind of connection?" he asked, baffled as to how his sister and his mistress–two women, it went without saying, that had never met–might be intertwined.

" You , Sterling." Kincaid's mouth flatted into a thin, grim line. "The connection is you."