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Chapter Two

F rom her quickly hidden look of astonishment, Adam gathered that she had no idea what to do with the savage in her library. Interesting, the reactions he’d gotten from people who, four years ago, would have entertained him gladly. He surmised by the manner of her dress that he’d interrupted her as she was preparing for an evening out. She was every inch as stunning as her portrait—sultry, lush, distant. Untouchable?

She blinked and a guarded look settled over her perfect features. “I fear you must have me confused with someone else.”

Ah, that was good. Very smooth. Not a single gesture betrayed anything other than a natural confusion beneath the surface. Even her voice was calm. Admiration filled him at her aplomb. He’d known many ambassadors with less self-possession.

He released her hand reluctantly. She was the first Englishwoman he’d touched in four years, and he was startled by the suppressed hunger that surged in him. “My name is Adam Hawthorne—your husband’s nephew. Perhaps he mentioned me?”

Her dusky-rose lips parted slightly, as if she were struggling to say something but couldn’t think how to put it in words. “Adam?” she finally managed to say. “I…we were told that you were killed in an Indian attack.”

“The news of my death was a bit premature.” He grinned.

“Oh, dear.” She pressed one finger to the bridge of her nose in a gesture of distress and her eyes welled with tears. “I—I do not know quite how to tell you this, Mr. Hawthorne, but your uncle…my husband…is dead.”

Her sympathy caught him by surprise and he held his own grief inside. He would deal with that later, and in private. “Would that mean that I am not welcome here?” he asked.

“Oh! Of course you are welcome. You were Mr. Forbush’s only relative. He spoke of you often.”

“Did he?” She referred to her husband as Mr. Forbush? That did not exactly tell of an intimate relationship. Had all the fondness been on his uncle’s part?

“In glowing terms. He was very proud of you.”

He held up his brandy glass and said, “I hope you do not mind that I helped myself. It has been many years since I’ve had strong drink.”

“Of course not. You must make yourself at home.”

Oh, he planned to make himself very much at home. “Thank you, Aunt Grace.” He paused to give a self-mocking grin. “I am sorry if I sound flippant, but it seems awkward to call someone obviously younger than I ‘Aunt.’”

She gestured toward the sofa in front of the fireplace. “I am afraid this whole situation is a bit awkward, Mr. Hawthorne. To say I am surprised is somewhat of an understatement.”

“No less surprised than I to find my uncle had died in my absence.”

She glanced over her shoulder at a lovely blond creature who looked to be pinned to the spot. “Mr. Hawthorne, may I present my niece, Miss Dianthe Lovejoy.”

He bowed, noting that the girl was staring at his laced buckskins. She stepped a little closer to her aunt. For protection?

Grace took a few more steps into the room. “May I prevail upon you to tell me the details of your…arrival here?”

He hadn’t the heart to go through that another time today. An abbreviated version would have to do. “Not much to tell,” he said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. He was tempted to see if his worn buckskins had stained the silk damask. “I was taken hostage by a small band of Chippewa four years ago and when I was free to leave, I found there were compelling reasons to stay. I’ve only just come to a point where returning was imperative.”

“And here you are,” she finished, taking a chair across from him.

She folded her hands in her lap and Adam used the moment to congratulate himself on his assessment from the portrait he’d seen all those years ago. His uncle’s wife was, indeed, all cool composure on the outside. Cool enough to kill his uncle? Ah, but there was something else there, something the artist had been unable to capture with brushstrokes on canvas. A hint of fire and depth was carefully banked beneath the icy exterior. It was a smoldering heat that could clearly bring a man to his knees with desire, but not many would have the courage to penetrate her intimidating demeanor. But he had seen enough of the world to know that Grace Forbush was a woman who barely held herself in check. She was hiding more than that smoldering sexuality, and he would not leave London until he discovered what it was.

“I’d have written,” he said at length, “but there was nowhere to post a letter.”

She smiled and nodded, and a small shift of her shoulders indicated a decision. “How long will you be in town, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“Not long. I have a few business matters to conclude, and I’d like to contact some old friends, then I shall go to Devon. Or, depending upon the answers I get here, back to Canada.”

“Have you decided to make your home there?”

“No.” He glanced down into his brandy. Home. He’d traveled the world in search of it, but he’d never found “home.” Even England felt foreign now. He gave himself a mental shake and looked up again. “But there is a matter still pending.”

She looked curious but she was too well bred to ask the question. Instead she changed the subject. “Have you found comfortable accommodations in town, sir?”

He’d stayed in a flash house last night after debarking. He’d lain awake, waiting for one of the thugs who’d sized him up to steal the leather pouch with all he had left in the world. But no one had bothered him—likely because he’d slept with his knife in his hand—the deadly razor-edged knife that had become his constant companion in the last four years. “My ship docked late so I found a room near the wharves. Then, of course, there’s the money. As I’ve been reported dead, I imagine my accounts were closed?”

The lovely widow knit her brow and pressed an index finger to her forehead again. He wondered if she realized that she was betraying emotion with that gesture. “Mr. Hawthorne, you must stay here, of course.”

“Very kind of you, Mrs. Forbush, but—”

“No. I insist. You see, Mr. Forbush closed your accounts and, in the absence of another heir, absorbed your assets.”

Adam managed to look surprised. “I see. Well, that is the logical thing for him to have done.”

“Yes, but it poses a complication now. I will need to go through the accounts and separate your assets from his and attribute any interest that would have been yours had your accounts remained open. I have made some investments with the funds, and those will revert to you, of course. I am afraid the accounting will take a little time. Or, if you would prefer not to stay here, I could advance you a portion and—”

“I’d be pleased to lodge with you.” If he gave her another moment to think of alternatives, she’d probably withdraw her invitation. It suited his purposes much better to stay here. “Truth to tell, Mrs. Forbush, I shall enjoy feeling a part of the family again,” he hastened to add. That much was true. He longed for a sense of belonging, but had never found it. That emptiness had led him to the Diplomatic Corps. Perhaps he’d thought he’d find “home” in his travels. He hadn’t. Just more solitude.

Adam smiled as his hostess requested her niece’s assistance. “Dianthe, please find Mrs. Dewberry and have her prepare the guest suite for Mr. Hawthorne. And ask her to send up a bath and…and the trunk in the attic that has Mr. Hawthorne’s name on it.” She turned back to him and tilted her head to one side as Miss Dianthe hurried from the room. “Perhaps there is something there that you can wear until you have time to see a tailor, Mr. Hawthorne, but we shall have to air them out. They are likely to smell of camphor and dust. Have you had your dinner yet?”

How efficient she was. There appeared to be nothing that could shake her composure for long. She’d have made an excellent diplomat’s wife. “I’m afraid not.”

“I shall ask Mrs. Dewberry to bring you a tray.”

Was he to be banned from the table? “I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir. I regret that Dianthe and I will not be able to join you tonight. We both have previous commitments. But tomorrow we shall take some time to become better acquainted. We shall look forward to hearing tales of your adventures.”

The only tales he had to tell were not fit for civilized ears, Adam thought. But they would most definitely become better acquainted while he took the woman’s measure. Was she a fortune hunter? Might there be something odd about his uncle’s death? He intended to find out.

As their coach drew close to an infamous hell near St. James Square, Grace finally spoke. “You knew? Why did you not warn me? I was so astonished that I must have looked an utter fool.”

At least Ronald Barrington had the good sense to look shame-faced. “I had no idea he would come to see you today. I thought he’d settle in somewhere and—”

She pulled her green silk-lined pelisse closer around her and clutched her beaded reticule tighter as the dank air seeped through the coach window. “He has settled in—at my house. Not that I begrudge him hospitality for a single second, but this was hardly a good time for it.”

“’Twasn’t in my plans, either, Grace. This has caused some damned inconvenient problems for me, as well.”

She glanced sideways at her escort. In his late fifties, slightly overweight and with a florid complexion, he could still confound her with his pomposity. “What inconvenience has it caused you?”

“Ah, well, ’tis business, m’dear. No need to worry your little head about it. I only wonder what the ton will say about his presence in your house.”

“No one will gossip. I rather think there would be a greater scandal if I refused him shelter. And, despite his rather eccentric appearance, he seems to possess the requisite manners to get along in society.”

“Send him on his way, Grace. He’s older than you, you’re both unmarried and people will speculate. Do you want your friends peddling your business behind their fans?”

“My friends would never peddle my business. And I’ve done nothing improper.” Still, gossip regarding her sheltering a single man could cause a problem. If word got back to her brother…. Lord! He’d come to London and drag her back to Devon by her hair!

Barrington gave her a speculative look. “And now we are on the subject of improper, why have you suddenly taken an interest in gaming?”

Grace was prepared for the question. She disliked telling half-truths, and she loathed the necessity, but Ronald Barrington was not, and would never be, privy to Wednesday League business. That was always strictly confidential. She sighed and glanced out the coach window. “I’ve told you, sir. I am bored half to death. I crave something different. Something more exciting.”

“I could give you something more exciting, Grace,” he intoned meaningfully, leaning closer and squeezing her arm.

What in the world had gotten into Lord Barrington? He’d never pressed her thus before. They’d always been clear that theirs was a platonic friendship, though they’d allowed the ton to think otherwise. And anyway, it was completely beyond her imagination why men thought a sweaty, uncomfortable coupling in the sheets was such fun. For her, it had been—no, that was well-traveled territory. She would not go there again. She hadn’t put herself through that since Basil had died.

What was wrong with her? Why had all these ghosts risen to haunt her? Adam Hawthorne’s sudden resurrection must have upset her more than she’d thought. He’d looked almost savage in his buckskins and long hair, and something deeply disturbing inside her had answered that primal pull. The sight of his leather breeches snug over strongly muscled thighs, the jacket straining against his shoulders and chest, and the raw masculinity he exuded had stolen her wits.

She took a deep breath as she prepared to exit the coach. She needed to put thoughts of Mr. Hawthorne behind her. He was a distraction from her goal. Tonight she would learn at least two popular games and the rudiments of placing bets. She must be prepared before she took on Lord Geoffrey at his own game.

Well past midnight, ignoring the looks of suspicion and wariness from the other patrons of the Eagle Tavern, Adam stepped up to the bar and fastened the publican with a steady gaze. “Fast Freddie?” he asked.

The barkeeper gave him a long look. “Who wants t’know?”

“Hawthorne,” he answered, without any real hope that would grant him access. Adam realized his appearance was a disadvantage—anything that called attention in this part of town was a disadvantage.

The man blinked once, then nodded toward the stairs. “Upstairs,” he said.

Good God. Four years later and Freddie Carter still kept “hours” in an upstairs room of the Eagle Tavern off Red Lion Square. He could scarcely believe his luck. He climbed the stairs, his moccasins silent on the treads. He rapped twice on the solid door and stood back.

A deep voice called, “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Fast Freddie,” he answered.

“Is that Hawthorne?” the voice called from within. “Good Lord, man! I heard you were back scarce an hour ago!” The door opened wide and Freddie clapped a meaty hand on Adam’s shoulder and dragged him inside. “I heard you’d gone native, but I wouldn’t believe it until now. Aye, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Adam grinned. “And I scarce dared believe you’d still be holding court in a seedy tavern. Shouldn’t you have saved the world by now?”

The man laughed and pulled him nearer the fire. “Got thrown off schedule when you left, Hawthorne, but now you’re here and we’ll get back on track.” Freddie pressed a tankard of stout into his hand and went to lock the door.

“Have I interrupted business hours?” he asked.

“Just wrapping things up for the night, Hawthorne. Anyone who had a private commission for me would have come by now. Do you have something to occupy me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Something to do with your travels, I warrant.” Freddie leaned back in his wooden chair, tipping it onto the back legs.

Adam grinned but said nothing. Fredrick Carter had always been perceptive. That was his gift, and it was what made him one of the best investigators in England.

When they’d been in their final term at Eton, Freddie’s father had been killed by street thugs for his watch and wedding ring. Adam had gone on to Cambridge, but Freddie had been forced to support himself, his mother and his three brothers. He’d devoted himself to bringing his father’s murderer to justice, he’d collected the reward and his course was set. Now he craved the excitement and danger of being a thief taker. Couldn’t live without it, he’d told Adam. He’d even persuaded Adam to work with him on a few cases before Adam was posted to Toronto.

“Come then,” Freddie said as he took a deep swallow from his tankard, “and tell me about your adventures. What did you do to get yourself reported dead?”

Adam emptied his tankard, savoring the dark earthy flavor of the stout. He launched into the story he’d already told Craddock and Barrington but added detail he’d only share with a friend. Freddie’s eyes widened as he concluded. “Then, when they realized I could not be guilty of the massacre, I’d become so mired in tribal warfare and retribution that I couldn’t leave.”

“Four years with Indians,” Freddie mused. “There’s even more to the story than you’ve told, Hawthorne. Does it have anything to do with that thing on your arm?”

Adam glanced down at the intricately beaded band on his left wrist. “Everything,” he admitted.

“A gift?”

“From Nokomis, a beautiful Indian maid. I found her gutted and scalped when we returned to the village.”

“You loved her,” Freddie said softly.

Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, had been infinitely sweet and funny, and she’d owned his heart completely. “Nokomis was eight, the chief’s daughter, and like a daughter to me. I’ve seen war before, Freddie, but this…this was different.”

“So it took you four years to find the sons of bitches? Time well spent, I’d say.”

“We hunted the warriors down one by one, but we never found the one the Indians called Long Knife, for the sword he wore. That man, Freddie, was an Englishman and British soldier. I’d wager my soul he was the one in command of that attack.”

Freddie whistled softly as he tipped his chair forward and went to stir the fire. “So that’s what brought you back. Can’t say as I blame you. Only promise you will not gut an English soldier on a London street. I’d hate to have to bring you in.”

Adam stared into the glowing embers, remembering how Nokomis had thrown her arms around his neck and begged him to wait for her until she’d grown up. So sweet, so innocent, she’d sworn she would marry no one but him.

When he’d found her in the mass of putrid bodies, she bore cuts that could only have come from an English blade. Adam prayed he had retained enough of a grip on his decidedly English values to restrain himself from killing the man who’d done that. It would be a near thing, though, in view of the fact that he hadn’t exercised much of that restraint lately. “I think I can safely promise you that I will not gut the man, Freddie.”

“Good. Meantime, what are your plans?”

Adam ran his fingers through his long hair. “Find a barber and a tailor. I’ve reported to my superiors and, until I am officially declared alive, I’m on my own. Craddock said I’d be reinstated, but I wonder if that’s a good idea. Another assignment like the last could end me.”

“Do you not have property in Wiltshire or Devonshire?”

He nodded. “Devonshire. But since I’ve been declared dead, there are a few complications.”

“Ah. But it will all be yours anyway, now that your uncle is dead.”

“Barrington said he’d left everything to his widow.”

“Bloody hell,” Freddie murmured. “I gather that’s the complication?”

Adam nodded. “My uncle’s widow has claimed his fortune and mine. She’s young, beautiful and, now, very rich. There were no children. I’m wondering if she could have…”

Freddie sighed. “Greed makes people do strange things, Hawthorne. I won’t lie to you—there were whispers to that effect. But the gossip died and suspicion was dropped. Where can I reach you? Where are you staying?”

“With my aunt, Grace Forbush. Bloomsbury Square.”

Freddie’s laughter followed him down the stairs. “Watch your back, Hawthorne.”

Chapter Three

M rs. Dewberry snapped the heavy ivory velvet drapes open, keeping up her steady stream of chatter. Grace winced as the early morning light streamed through her bedroom window and struggled to sit up.

“’E ate everything on the tray, I’ll give ’im that. Good appetite for someone so thin, that man.”

Grace rubbed her temples, picturing the lean form of Adam Hawthorne. She doubted the hollows in his cheeks were natural. He had the look of a man used to a Spartan existence and heavy physical activity.

“And I could’ve been wrong about the man,” Mrs. Dewberry admitted—a rarity for her. She placed a breakfast tray across Grace’s lap and shook out the napkin. If Grace did not take it quickly, Mrs. Dewberry was sure to tuck it beneath her chin. “’Is manners are quite lovely when ’e uses ’em. The mister says ’e inquired if ’e could stable a ’orse ’ere. Said ’e’d be glad to pay the mister, ’e would.”

“Of course he may have a horse here. And Mr. Dewberry is not to accept anything from Mr. Hawthorne. He is our guest. I shall see that there is extra in Mr. Dewberry’s envelope for the inconvenience.”

“That’s very considerate of you, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace poured herself a cup of strong breakfast tea. Her head ached and she needed to clear the cobwebs before she dealt with her solicitor and factor. Barrington had taken her to two gaming hells last night, infamous smoke-filled places where her eyes stung and her head throbbed. But she had to admit that she’d felt an edge of excitement when she’d won a small wager playing vingt-et-un.

One more night to learn, then she’d be ready to set herself up as an easy mark. If Morgan gulled her, she’d find out how, and then she’d expose him. The Talbot name would not need to come into it at all. His debt would be void and Laura Talbot would have a second chance to make a happy match.

She was spreading butter on a muffin when Dianthe burst into the room, tying her robe at her waist. “Aunt Grace! I just saw Mr. Hawthorne leaving.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Dewberry said. “’E said ’e ’ad some things to do and that ’e’d join you for dinner.” She paused at the door and smiled. “I’m ’aving Cook make a nice roast of beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

“And strawberry tarts for dessert?” Dianthe added.

“Aye, miss. I’ll tell Cook.”

Dianthe jumped on the bed and sat cross-legged. “I wish you could have heard the talk last night, Aunt Grace. It couldn’t have been midnight yet when the news began to circulate that you had gone to a gaming hell with Barrington. It was all the buzz.”

Grace laughed and shook her head. “That did not take long. What are they saying?”

“That you must be bored. Only Mrs. Thayer said that you’d bear watching lest you get yourself into some trouble.”

“Hmm.” Grace sipped her tea, beginning to feel better. “Well, by the time anyone has the least bit of concern, I shall be done. Nothing to worry about, Di. The Wednesday League has taken on much more difficult cases than this. This will be a mere stroll in the park.”

“All the same, I wish I could help you. I really do not like the idea of you going alone to such…unwholesome places. I asked Mr. Thayer about Geoffrey Morgan last night, and he said to warn you rather strongly about him.”

“Is the news out that Mr. Hawthorne has returned?”

“No. I thought that odd, but I gather he has not been out in society since his return. I will be amazed if there are not whisperings by tonight. Are you going out after dinner?”

“Barrington has agreed to take me to another hell. I’ve heard the Pigeon Hole is an amusing place.”

“Will you take Mr. Hawthorne with you?”

Grace pushed her tray aside and stood. “I think he would frighten fully half the population of London.”

“You are ashamed to be seen with him,” Dianthe accused.

Absolutely not. Yet, when she tried to imagine walking into the Auberville ballroom with a man in buckskins, she almost laughed. She could not begin to comprehend the gossip that would cause. But then she thought of where he would look at ease, and she glanced at her bedroom door. She imagined him there, late at night, holding a candle, that insouciant smile on his face, making himself as comfortable as he had in the library. Her mouth went dry and her chest constricted.

“Aunt Grace!” Dianthe exclaimed. “I have never seen you blush before. How interesting.”

She went to her dressing table and looked in the mirror. Delicate pink stained her cheeks and neck. “I must get dressed, Dianthe,” she said. “I am going to the bank and my factor’s office. The sooner Mr. Hawthorne has the resources to leave us, the better.”

Mr. Evans tapped a sheaf of papers on the surface of his desk to straighten them. Moistening his index finger, he began to leaf through the heap. Page by page, he separated the stack into two piles. “You realize this will considerably diminish your assets, do you not, Mrs. Forbush?”

Considerably? “I dare hope it will not impoverish me?”

“Nothing so severe as that,” her factor said, glancing above the rim of his spectacles. “But the bulk appears to be the investments of Mr. Hawthorne’s assets. If you insist that he should reap all the benefits—despite the fact that they were your investments—then your accounts shall suffer.”

She sighed and shrugged. An honest debt was an honest debt. Her gravest concern was that the news of her reduced circumstances would affect her ability to make Morgan take her seriously as a deep player. Oh, blast the timing! She would have to hold Adam’s funds until after dealing with Morgan. Now he would have to depend on her hospitality for another fortnight. “Mr. Evans, take your time in separating the assets and attributing the interest. I would not want you to make any mistakes because I had rushed you. We need not conclude this matter for two or three weeks. Mr. Hawthorne is staying with me and his needs will be taken care of. No need for unseemly haste.”

“As you say, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace smiled. She employed Mr. Evans to act in her best financial interests, and he was certainly doing so now. “I wish Mr. Hawthorne to have the interest. If he’d been here, he would have made his own investments.”

“If he’d been here, you’d not have had anything to invest,” Mr. Evans muttered as he continued his separation of the papers.

“I’d still have had my husband’s estate,” she corrected.

“Likely not, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace frowned. What did the man mean? Her solicitor had made some veiled reference to the same thing earlier this morning at their appointment. She’d asked to see Basil’s will, and he had told her it was “unavailable.”

“Likely not? What do you mean, Mr. Evans? Explain yourself.”

He finished sorting the stacks and looked up at her, concern creasing his forehead. “What? Oh…I, um, meant there would not have been as much to invest, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace sat back in her chair. She had the uneasy feeling that people were keeping things from her. “I want Mr. Hawthorne to have everything that should have been his, Mr. Evans. Mr. Forbush was always generous with me, and I can be no less with his nephew. That is what he would have wanted.”

“If you are certain.” Mr. Evans looked over the rims of his spectacles again. “Your integrity is admirable. Shall we meet a fortnight hence to sign the papers and complete the separations?”

“I shall mark my calendar, Mr. Evans.”

Adam tied his cravat for the fifth time. He’d gotten rusty in the particulars of refined dress. There were no cravats in the wigwams of the wilderness. Finally satisfied on the sixth try, he shrugged into his jacket and headed down to dinner. He’d taken several items of his better clothing to a tailor for the alterations he would need to make himself presentable in society, and had kept these few clothes out for use in the meantime. New, currently fashionable items would have to wait until his reinstatement and the pay that went with it.

When he entered the dining room, he found Grace and her niece waiting for him. “Sorry,” he said. “Had trouble with my cravat.”

Grace looked up at him and blinked. A slow smile warmed her face and her expression turned sultry. She stood and came toward him, extending her arms. When she was close enough for him to smell the delicate floral scent of her perfume, she lifted her graceful hands to tighten the knot and arrange the folds. He watched her fingers work through the fabric and felt a swift visceral reaction. How would those fingers look against his bare flesh? How would they feel closing around his—

She looked up, smoothing the fabric and meeting his gaze. “There. What do you think, Mr. Hawthorne?” Her voice was slightly breathless.

That it’s a damn good thing you don’t know what I’m thinking! He stood frozen for a moment while he gained mastery over his rioting blood. “Well done, Mrs. Forbush.”

She returned to her place at the table and even the rustle of her blue-gray gown caused him to catch his breath. He’d been too long without a woman. But his uncle’s widow was more than just any woman. She was Salome incarnate—a natural seductress.

A moment later he took the place set for him at the opposite end of the table, Miss Lovejoy between them. “Feel free to correct my manners, ladies. I’ve been so long away from utensils and china that I may forget myself and use my hands.”

Dianthe laughed. “I think you will adapt quite easily, Mr. Hawthorne. Aside from your native clothing, I’ve seen nothing of you that is unpolished. Though your barber could have cut a little closer.”

He acknowledged her compliment with a smile, but turned to Grace for confirmation, given with a single nod. “I rather think the length becomes you as it is, Mr. Hawthorne.”

They were silent as Mrs. Dewberry served dishes laden with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, tender vegetables drowning in rich butter and what seemed like a myriad of condiments and confections after the simple fare he was accustomed to eating.

“Are you coming out tonight, Mr. Hawthorne?” Dianthe asked him at length.

The question startled him. How long had it been since anyone had cared or questioned his comings and goings? Odd, how the careless question made him feel a part of something larger. “I do not have plans, Miss Lovejoy, but I think I am ready to make an appearance in society. Must be done sooner or later and there’s no sense putting it off.”

“Marvelous,” she said with a smile. “Then you must accompany me to Charity MacGregor’s little reception. She is a delightful hostess, and all the most amusing people will be there. The Aubervilles are picking me up on the way. You could come along if you wish.”

He’d met Lord Auberville years ago when he’d been a diplomatic advisor to a military contingent suing for peace with Algiers. “I would like to pay my respects,” he mused. He looked at Grace for her consent.

“I have other plans for tonight, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Aunt Grace is going gambling,” Dianthe volunteered.

Surprised, he looked at his hostess in a new light. He hadn’t suspected she had an adventurous side. Who was this woman with such an odd blend of innocence and experience? Everything about the woman was contradictory. “Gambling, eh? What is your game of choice?”

She shrugged and gave him a listless smile. “I think I prefer vingt-et-un, sir. Hazard and faro are diverting. I enjoy whist, but I do not like being dependent upon a partner.”