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  Lucien eyed his brother half hostilely, uncertain of how to proceed. One way or another, he would warn Damien away from his woman, but he had to broach the subject cautiously. Alice had claimed that Damien knew about the two of them. Lucien couldn’t see how. Despite her refusal to believe him, he had not told his brother anything. If Damien indeed knew, Lucien knew that he had gone after Alice simply to get back at him for seducing Caro. That had to be the reason. To be sure, you ass, he scoffed at himself, it could have nothing to do with the fact that she was the most exquisite woman in the room. The knowledge filled him with misery and jealous, burning frustration. All those young bucks crowding around her had been infuriating enough, but if Damien was serious in his pursuit of Alice, Lucien thought he might as well hang himself.

  Surely she realized that she could hope for no better revenge on him than to accept Damien as a suitor, he thought bleakly. If she wanted to hurt him—and he did not blame her, if she did—then she already held the perfect weapon in her delicate, artist’s hands.

  “I trust you enjoyed the evening,” Damien remarked, his voice a deep, ironic drawl.

  Lucien turned as Damien let out a stream of smoke, looking rather pleased with himself.

  “Noticed you actually stood up to dance tonight,” Lucien said smoothly, masking his resentment.

  “Couldn’t resist,” he answered. “Did you see the girl I met? Beautiful.”

  “Very,” he agreed through gritted teeth. He felt his face flush with anger.

  “How’s Caro?” Damien asked innocently. “Ah, but I reckon it didn’t work out between the two of you, since she’s been seen all over town with that Prussian ape.”

  “I don’t give a damn about her,” Lucien said in a warning tone, holding his stare.

  “Or any woman, eh, brother?” Damien stood and sauntered over to him, stopping mere inches away from him. “Not really. You never really care about anyone, do you? Except yourself.”

  Lucien gazed insolently at him. I do not need this right now.

  “You have done a terrible thing,” Damien said, his voice barely louder than the low night breeze, though its undertone was steel. “Nothing you’ve done to date has equaled the dishonor with which you have treated that girl, Lucien. You took a gently bred virgin, seduced her, then cast her aside as though she were a whore. I am ashamed of you.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Damien stared at him. “Is that all you have to say? How did I find out? Caro told me, if you must know. She came here one night last week to throw herself at me again, and when I asked her to leave, she told me about you and Miss Montague. She threw it in my face about what a pack of ‘scoundrels’ we Knight brothers are.”

  “That sounds like Caro, all right.”

  “Lucien, what were you thinking? Miss Montague is a baron’s daughter, a gentlewoman. You would shame not only her, but yourself and our family with your flagrant immorality.”

  “Damien.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled for patience.

  “How you plan to live with yourself is your own affair, but I wanted you to know that I am going to take care of this situation. As usual, it falls to me to clean up your mess.”

  He suddenly stopped. “Take care of it?”

  “I am seeing Miss Montague tomorrow,” Damien replied in a grim tone of resolve. “I am going to ask her to marry me.”

  Lucien stared at him, shocked to the core; then flames of fury sprang to life in his eyes. “Don’t. You. Dare,” he whispered.

  “Then do what honor requires.”

  “I can’t,” he nearly wailed.

  “Well, I can,” Damien said, then roughly brushed past him and stalked into the house.

  Lucien stood there paralyzed, his mind reeling, his heart pounding. How appallingly easy it was to imagine them together—the war hero and Goody Two-Shoes! What a match! Damien wanted heirs; Alice longed for a brood of children to dote upon. How like his honor-bound brother to take matters into his own hands.

  Lucien ran his hand through his hair, then clasped the back of his neck and closed his eyes, hating himself. He had never felt like more of a failure. Alice might have said no to that lad’s proposal, but what woman in her right mind would refuse the great Damien Knight, soon to become the earl of Winterley? he thought bitterly. He might as well accept it. She would be better off with Damien anyway. Damien could make her a countess. Lucien couldn’t do that. Damien was admired, respected. She would never have to be ashamed of him and would never need to beg him not to play such dangerous games. If Claude Bardou ended up killing Lucien, at least he could rest in peace knowing that Damien was taking care of Alice. It was for the best, he told himself, a lump of despair rising in his throat. Whatever she had loved about him, she could have in his twin brother. Damien was just like him, after all.

  Without the flaws.

  Alice had long since arrived home, retired to her chamber, and gone to bed, but she could not fall asleep for worrying about Lucien. She prayed feverishly to God to keep him safe. At last, just when she had started to doze off, she was lurched back to wakefulness by the noise of von Dannecker and Caro passing in the hallway outside her door on their way to the baroness’s bedchamber.

  “What’s wrong, darling?” she heard Caro murmur. “You look so grim.”

  She could not make out von Dannecker’s mumbled reply as they moved on. But it was not long before she began to hear Caro’s muffled laughter through the wall, the murmurs of love play, and then the groaning.

  Alice pulled her pillow over her head in vexation, trying to drown out the sounds, but the couple grew louder, their moans ever more feverish, until her own memories tortured her, making her body burn for the only man she had ever known, ever wanted: her seducer, that hateful, silver-eyed fiend that she loved. Agonized with missing him, she threw off the covers, pulled on her dressing gown, and tiptoed up to the nursery to check on Harry.

  He was fast asleep when she glided silently into his room. He looked so peaceful, slumbering on his back, a beam of moonlight falling across his cherubic face. Gazing down at him, trembling in the night’s chill, tears filled her eyes.

  Lambkin, you’re all I have left.

  The floorboards creaked when she shifted her weight. She almost wanted him to wake up so she wouldn’t have to be so alone. She stifled the urge to pet his downy head, picking up his cotton-stuffed toy dog instead. She hugged it to her as she stared down at him, crystalline tears streaming down her face in the moonlight. She lowered her head and hugged the toy harder, careful to keep her heartbroken sobs silent while every atom of her body and her heart screamed for Lucien.

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, Alice sat on a bench in Hyde Park, bundled up in her pelisse, scarf, and gloves, sketching the bleak lines of the trees. She had told Lucien that she would not go out on Guy Fawkes Night, but she hadn’t made any promises about the daytime. Shortly after dawn, she had been awakened by von Dannecker’s clumping footfalls as he left Caro’s bedchamber. Alice supposed she should be grateful that he had not stayed for breakfast.

  With a bit of a headache from crying herself to sleep the night before, she glanced over her shoulder in irritation at the workmen pounding their hammers. They were putting the finishing touches on the dais where the dignitaries would give their speech tonight before the fireworks display was set alight. Alice had never much cared for the holiday of Guy Fawkes Night. It was a noisy, chaotic, rather coarse festival day that always made her fret over the precarious mix of cavorting drunkards and blazing bonfires.

  She squinted against the overcast glare and continued with her drawing. It comforted her. The sky was a tumbling sea of tall gray clouds with sharp silver edges; here and there, the sun poked through in fanlike rays. The trees’ rich autumn leaves had long since fallen and scattered away upon the wind, leaving them bare, scraggly stalks against the pewter sky.

  Nellie had ambled down to the muddy bank of the Serpentine, her sewing ba
sket draped over her forearm. Alice knew that her withdrawn attitude was making her maid uneasy, but she could not stir even a shred of cheer. She just sat brooding, idly sketching the trees, her hand moving across the page with a will of its own, shading here, adding detail there. Suddenly the dull, thudding cadence of hoofbeats broke into her thoughts.

  She looked up, then let out a small gasp as a tall, imposing, wonderfully familiar horseman came riding toward her on a large white steed. Her heart leaped with instant recognition and she sat up straight, but as he came closer, she made out the scarlet uniform beneath his greatcoat and slumped again on the bench, mocking her own pitiful hopes.

  It was the other one. Lord, hadn’t she made it perfectly clear last night that she would not welcome his advances?

  Damien reined his tall white horse in before her and swept off his plumed shako, giving her a curt nod in greeting. “Miss Montague. Harry’s nurse told me I might find you here.”

  She heaved a sigh as he dismounted with an athletic leap and strode toward her, hesitating a little when he noticed her dull stare. He looked so much like Lucien that she felt a pang at the sight of him.

  “I realize you do not wish to speak with me, but you must hear me out,” he said.

  “Must I?” she murmured rather cynically. This was a man accustomed to giving orders and being unquestioningly obeyed, she thought. At his overbearing tone, Nellie came over and stood by her protectively. Alice nodded to her. “It’s all right.” With a faint look of distress, Nellie backed off to a respectful distance but stayed near enough for propriety. “Very well.” Alice sighed, gesturing toward the bench. “You may join me.”

  The colonel sat down beside her and searched her face with a penetrating stare.

  Though his face was weathered and hard, he had the saddest eyes she had ever seen.

  “Miss Montague, I will come straight to the point.”

  No, she thought wryly, this was definitely not Lucien.

  “I am aware of the unpardonable way my brother has behaved toward you. I know what happened, and I know you are not to blame for what befell you. It is entirely his fault. He knows better.” He shook his head with a look of contained fury. “When Caro told me—”

  “Caro told you?” she interrupted.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” She was taken aback to realize that Lucien had been telling the truth last night. He had not boasted to anyone about his conquest of her.

  “I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for my brother’s actions.”

  “Not at all, my lord,” she murmured, even as she recalled Mr. Whitby’s assertion that Damien had appointed himself his brother’s keeper years ago.

  “Nevertheless, I mean to ensure that no further harm comes to you,” he said soberly. “I shall not allow my brother to dishonor our family name or you. The reason I wished to see you was, uh—” He cleared his throat; then his words rushed at her like a veritable cavalry charge riding to her rescue. “I have come to offer you the protection of my name—to make you my wife if you will have me. You will not go unprotected after what my brother has done to you. I will make it right. As for the past, as I said, I’m well aware that it wasn’t your fault. My stature in society is such that this . . . mishap . . . need never come back to haunt you.”

  She stared at him, astonished by his offer when she had thought so ill of him. She lowered her gaze, humbled and chastened by his chivalry. Though his speech was well rehearsed, she found the big warrior’s uneasiness entirely endearing.

  While he waited for her reply, Alice took a brief mental glance at the possibility that he was offering. The man was a godsend, in truth. She would not have to explain her lack of virginity, nor would she be blamed for it. He was a national hero with a sterling reputation, a man known for his courage and integrity. As his wife, she would be a countess, a respected member of Society—and better still, a wife and mother. But slowly, Alice laid her hand on his forearm and gazed wistfully into his deep gray eyes.

  “What a dear, decent man you are. Please accept my deepest thanks. Though I am honored beyond words by your generosity, I cannot accept.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Why?”

  “I’m in love with your brother,” she confessed softly.

  He frowned. “Miss Montague, do not be foolish. Men and women marry every day without love. You will be ruined, and I need a wife anyway. I am offering you a lifeline. I advise you to take it.”

  “It would hurt him too much.”

  “So what if it does?” he asked, scowling just like Lucien. “How can you harbor any tenderness for a man who seduced you without a qualm and then abandoned you?”

  “I love him,” she said more determinedly. “He has hurt me, yes, but I don’t want to punish him or take revenge on him. What happened between us was not all his doing, after all. He wooed me, but it was I who surrendered. I was the fool who gave him my heart.”

  “And now he has broken it,” he said in a hard tone, studying her.

  She lowered her gaze. “I apologize for my rudeness to you last night at the ball. I feared you had less than honorable intentions.”

  “Understandable. Do not trouble yourself. Unlike my brother, I am quite thick-skinned, and as he would claim, thick-headed to match.” He cracked a rueful smile as he rose and handed her his calling card. “I realize this must be a difficult time for you. If you reconsider over the next few days and wish to change your mind, you can reach me at Knight House on Green Park. My offer stands.” He gave her a curt bow, then marched back to his horse, pulling on his hat. Gathering the reins, he swung up into the saddle and tipped her a vague salute, then reeled his white horse around and cantered off across the drab green field.

  Alice watched him ride away and hoped she had not made a huge mistake.

  “You idiots!”

  Lucien’s bellow carried through the halls of the Bow Street justice offices. He had officially reached his wit’s end, he thought. He turned away from the huddle of bewildered French immigrants, emigrés, and tourists waiting behind bars in the holding cell and glared at the Bow Street Runners who had detained them. Even the duke of Devonshire’s haughty French chef had been taken captive. Marc and the others stood around waiting to assist, shifting their weight uneasily while Lucien vented his temper on the Bow Street officers.

  “How many times are we going to go through this? I told you Bardou is a big man—bigger than me, blond haired—look at these men! This is what you bring me? Have you even looked at the sketch I made up?”

  “Yes, we have. My lads are doing their best, but the fact is, you’re the only one who has ever laid eyes on this man,” their captain protested while the Runners stood around, their hands on their hips, eyeing him sullenly.

  “If this is your best, it’s not good enough,” Lucien clipped out. “People are going to die if this man is not found. God damn it! Release them.”

  As the harassed Frenchmen were freed and sent on their way, Lucien brushed off the Runners and stalked out, his young associates marching in a tight V behind him. He pushed open the doors and paced restlessly on the pavement, his hands in his pockets. He racked his brain, to no avail, and somehow restrained himself from punching the brick wall beside him. The day had come—it was three in the afternoon of Guy Fawkes—yet somehow on the paramount day when he should have been deducing Claude Bardou’s plot, all he could do was obsess over finding out what Alice’s answer had been to Damien.

  Bloody hell, if he were Damien, Bardou would have already been captured, thrown in the Tower, and executed, he thought in vicious self-contempt.

  “You didn’t have to bite their heads off,” Marc muttered to him as he paced by. “Now they’re going to be even less cooperative.”

  “Does it still bloody matter?” he said. “It’s too late. We’ve already failed.”

  “Don’t say that! You can’t give up hope yet.”

  Lucien knew he was right, but his mood was frayed and raw after having slept a total
of ten minutes the night before. He rubbed his forehead. “They’re incompetent.”

  “Yes, but the captain had a point. Frankly, your drawing is terrible.” Marc grimaced wryly. “You can draw topographical maps with marvelous precision, my lord, I’ll give you that, but your sketch of Bardou—well, it barely looks human.”

  Lucien ran his hand impatiently through his hair. “It’s no “Mona Lisa,” but how can any idiot confuse a fair-haired man of forty who’s over six feet tall with a little five-foot chef? They are dunces!”

  “You’re the only one of us who has ever seen this man, my lord. Clearly, we need to unite you with someone who specializes in portrait drawings,” Talbert said.

  “Miss Montague could do it,” Kyle said under his breath.

  “I don’t want to hear it. I will not have her involved,” Lucien warned.

  “Sir, people are going to die. You said it yourself!”

  “And she will not be one of them,” he answered darkly.

  “Now that we know she’s in Town, anyway, we might as well make use of her talents. She’s good at faces,” Jenkins argued.

  “He’s right,” Marc insisted. “If three dozen of the constable’s watchmen and Runners and we ourselves have seen neither hide nor hair of Bardou, obviously, he is nowhere nearby. Where, then, is the danger in your simply going to her and asking her to help us? We will stand guard outside her house to ensure her safety, if you wish. All you have to do is describe Bardou’s face and let her draw it. She could be our only hope!”

  “What makes you think she’ll help?” Lucien bit back. “I am not exactly in her good graces.”

  “She would never refuse, knowing people’s lives depended on it,” O’Shea said sagely.