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He still wasn’t sure if
he
was disappointed or relieved.

He parked his car, let himself out, and trudged his way toward the front door of his cousin’s house. The drive had not, as he hoped, helped him collect his thoughts. They were still awhirl with it all. Proposals from Pratt. Threats from Lady Catherine. Something called the Fire Eyes.

And she hadn’t kissed him back.

“Justin.”

He started at Cayton’s voice. Looking up, he could barely make out his cousin’s form at the edge of the garden. “James?”

“Mm. Join me? I just ordered some wine.”

Out here? The evening had turned cool, but the moon held court in the heavens, and it was rare enough that his cousin actually asked for his company. Justin altered his course, thankful he had shrugged into his great coat for the drive. “Of course.”

He passed through the opening in the hedge as Cayton sat at a small table, in one of two chairs. His cousin motioned toward the second. “I need to talk to you.”

Justin’s stomach went tight as he pulled out the cold metal seat and lowered himself into it. “Why does that not sound pleasant?”

Cayton sighed and folded his arms, shirtsleeves gleaming white over his chest in the moonlight. “You are going to London tomorrow?”

“Yes. You?”

“Soon. But I . . . I need to go to Gloucestershire first.”

At that, Justin frowned. Aunt Susan was there with Aunt Caro. But they said they were traveling tomorrow too. “To Ralin? What do you need? We can phone the castle and have it sent with your mother.”

A servant emerged from the house, bottle of wine and goblets on a tray. After depositing it on the table, she scurried away.

Cayton said nothing while he poured.

Justin waited. Accepted a goblet, took a sip.

His cousin’s next sigh gusted forth. “I’m betrothed.”

That brought Justin’s spine straighter, though he had been ready to try to recline against the wrought-iron back. He smiled—halfway, until he realized that Cayton didn’t. “When? I was not aware you’d seen Lady Melissa lately.”

Cayton held his glass but didn’t drink. Apparently he would rather stare into its burgundy depths. “I haven’t seen her since last month, when I was in Town.”

The frown pulled at Justin’s brows again. “You have been engaged a full month and have said nothing? Someone would have mentioned—”

“No.”

No . . . what? That Cayton hadn’t been engaged a full month, or that he hadn’t said nothing? It must be the first. “You asked her by letter?”

“No.” Sounding exasperated now, Cayton looked up. The moonlight caught on the whites of his eyes. “It’s not Melissa.”

“It’s not . . .” The words made little sense. Justin gave up on the wine. “You told me you were in love with her.” And the saying of such a thing had been striking, when he read his cousin’s letter over the winter—he had not thought them close enough to warrant such a confession.

“I know. I am. Or was. Or . . .” Cayton set his goblet down with a clatter of crystal upon marble—leaned forward and rested his forehead in his hands. “I’m strapped, Justin. And a second daughter’s dowry isn’t going to help.”

“James—”

“Don’t lecture me. I know you put your estate to rights, so you no doubt think I can do the same. But I can’t. It’s been languishing too long, and I had no idea. I thought the steward had it well in hand—he’s been taking care of everything since before I was born. But when he passed away in January and I looked over everything . . .”

Now it was Justin’s turn to sigh. “I was not going to lecture. I certainly cannot judge. But are you sure marriage is the answer?”

Cayton snorted. “I have no other alternatives. It seems I don’t have the luck of your father.”

“James—you’ve been gambling?”

His cousin winced. “The horse races.”

A breath of laughter slipped out before he could stop it. “Perhaps you should have tried baccarat—that was Father’s game.” Not that Justin was actually advising . . . but his cousin knew that.

Cayton sent him a lopsided, sad smile. “Too late. I’ve already sworn off it all.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the chirping of the frogs from the pond. Justin took another sip of the wine. “Who, then, if not Lady Melissa?”

Cayton picked his glass up again too. “Miss Adelaide Rosten.”

“Rosten.” Justin held his burgundy halfway to his lips. “The name sounds familiar.”

“It should—she is your neighbor in Gloucestershire. Her grandfather made his fortune in the mills.”

“And she is the heiress.”

Cayton nodded. “She . . . she is a sweet girl. Unobtrusive. I knew her as a child, though I scarcely paid any mind to her. She has no family left.”

Try as he might, Justin could not put a face to the name. “So it is official?”

“Yes. We haven’t made the announcement yet, but yes. I wanted . . . Before anyone else knows, I wanted to speak with you. Mother isn’t happy with me, nor is Aunt Caro. And of course, if we’re all in London, the gossips will soon pick up on it all, and Miss Rosten . . . She doesn’t deserve to be lambasted. If you stood with us, it would go a long way toward smoothing things over.”

For Cayton, yes. No doubt it would. But for Justin? He ran a hand over his face. Brook would no doubt be furious on behalf of her cousin. One more thing between them, if he stood beside Cayton. But what choice did he have? “Have you told Lady Melissa?”

“Not yet. I will as soon as I get to London. I realize this will put you in a tight spot with your baroness. If you . . .”

“You know I will support you, James.”

Cayton’s shoulders sagged. “I couldn’t be sure. I know you hoped it would be neat and tidy for you. Thate married to Regan, me to Melissa, you to Brook.”

It would have. But he should have known better than to expect it. “Reality is rarely so tidy though, hmm?”

“Indeed. Let us pray it is simpler for you and you can win her back.”

Justin had been reaching for his glass again, but that brought his arm to a halt. “Win her
back
?”

Cayton motioned in the direction of Whitby. “Melissa told me she and Worthing are always exchanging letters, that she visited him in Sussex and had nothing but happy tales to tell.” He took a drink, set his glass down again. “Don’t underestimate your competition, cousin. When you didn’t write to her, she had to turn
somewhere
.”

“I
did
write her. More frequently than I ever had before, but—it seems someone intercepted the letters.”

His cousin stared at him for a long moment, brow creased. “Are you quite serious? Why the devil would anyone do that?”

Justin shook his head. “I don’t know. But someone did, and caught hers to me too, before they could be posted.”

“I suppose that helps, at least—that she now knows you did write.”

“Yes. Maybe.” He, too, looked off toward Whitby. Only darkness met him. “But knowing it cannot undo the damage. Cannot tell us all the thoughts shared and not received. Knowing there is treachery does not bridge the gap.”

It just gave Brook another focus.

Cayton trailed a finger along the crystal’s edge, making it sing. “You should have won her before you left. Secured an engagement, if not married her then and there.”

Justin picked his glass up again, though he didn’t drink. It wouldn’t warm the places Brook’s reception had left so cold and hopeless. “I know.”

“And what about me, I ask you? No one gives any thought to
my
reputation, and the fact that it will be left in absolute tatters if I don’t get the first dance from either of you.”

Brook pressed her lips together against a grin as Brice splayed
a hand over his heart, his face the archetype of a tragic hero. “No doubt you’ll perish from the neglect, my lord.”

“I shall indeed. Cruel creatures.” He turned to include Melissa in his sad-eyed gaze. “First your sister dashes my heart to pieces, and now the two of you show no regard for my tender feelings.”

“Careful, Worthing.” Melissa angled her sweetest smile his way, though her fingers didn’t pause in their embroidery. “Keep it up, and I may decide to toss Cayton over for you, out of pity.
Then
where would you be?”

“Blessed beyond measure, to have the attention of a lady so fair.” He grinned as he said it . . . then sank to a seat on the couch well away from Brook’s cousin. “But let no one ever accuse me of being the means of another’s heartbreak. You must resist my charm, my lady, for the sake of Lord Cayton.”

Brook chuckled and set aside the book she’d been reading before Brice arrived. Aunt Mary had already taken her and Melissa to the shops, spending obscene amounts of money on hats and gloves and wraps and who knew what else. Never in her life had Brook more longed for a horse, an open stretch of land, and the sea by her side. It had been nothing like shopping in Paris with Grand-père. Especially given Aunt Mary’s stony silence when Brook insisted that—no, she would
not
wear the horrid pink thing to her debut—she would wear the green gown.

Brook stood and moved to the window overlooking the street, telling herself she was
not
waiting to see a Rolls-Royce hum up the drive. Her fingers found the dangling pearls. Twisted, released, twisted again. She dropped her hand when Brice leaned into the wall beside her window. Though it took effort, she mustered a smile. “Did Ella pout at being left behind in Sussex?”

He grinned. “She put up an admirable fuss, though of course it didn’t budge our mother. She’s got that stubborn Scotch blood, after all.” His gaze went to the window, to the road
she’d been
not
watching. “Have you seen him yet? Rumor says he’s been back for a few days.”

Nothing ever slipped by him. It could get annoying. Nodding, Brook glanced to her cousin—and was surprised to see Regan sitting beside Melissa, though Brook hadn’t heard her come in. They were talking, laughing, Regan’s hand resting on the barely visible bump of the child she would deliver at the end of summer. “He came to Whitby Park before we left.”

“And?” Brice lifted a dark brow. “I hope you socked him right in the nose.”

A laugh slipped out. “You, who wouldn’t even step on that spider at Midwynd?”

“I didn’t say
I
would have socked him. But I would have cheered for you, if you chose to.” Despite his grin, his eyes were serious and warm. “He deserves it, after ignoring you as he’s done.”

“He didn’t, though.” She cast another glance at her cousins, who knew nothing about mail-tampering or Fire Eyes or threats. And whom she would happily keep in the dark, since their knowing would only make their mother faint. “He wrote to me, apparently. But I never got his letters, nor did he receive mine.”

Brice straightened and faced the window, putting his back to her cousins. No doubt so they wouldn’t see his frown. “On both ends—that is no quirk of the post.”

“No.”

“Brook.” He reached for her hand and held it between both of his. “I’ve a bad feeling. I have had ever since you told me of that man in the stables, and it’s only grown worse. Whatever this Fire Eyes business is about, it’s dangerous.”

“I don’t think this had anything to do with that. More likely it was Pratt.”

Brice shook his head and held her fingers tighter. “One explanation is always more likely than two. And I don’t believe in coincidences—you know that.”

“I know.” His faith often put hers to shame. But then, he could see things so much more clearly—it was hardly fair. “Have you any insight that could actually prove helpful, instead of worrying me more?”

He held his tongue, held her gaze as thoughts marched through his eyes. His thumb stroked over her knuckles in an absent gesture—she’d seen him do the same to his mother or sister. Still, it sent a warm little tingle up her arm. Not exactly fire, not exactly hope. But perhaps it could be fanned into something.
He
, at least, wouldn’t shove her away at the first possible moment.

At length, Brice nodded. “This time next week, you will be the darling of London. Use it to your advantage.”

Frustration knotted in her chest, and she looked back to the window. “You are always so sure of how I will be received, but I am not. I am still so very Monegasque, and—”

“And that is still so very intriguing. You were raised by a performer, Brook, and as a princess. You don’t act quite like all the other girls. You carry yourself like a ballerina. And I am in no way trying to flatter you when I say yours is the loveliest face in Town.” His tone was serious, quiet, a bid to look at him again.

She did, and found his eyes dark and intent, as they had been that first day at the house party, when he’d told her to go to Justin, whether he wanted to let her or not.

“Use it,” he whispered. “Enchant them. Leave them wondering, seeking more—it will mean the press will show up wherever you are.”

She tried, in vain, to tug her fingers free as she loosed an exasperated sigh. “And why in the world would I—”

“Because”—all teasing left his expression, and he gripped her hand tighter, held her arm straight down to keep her still—“where the press is, there is safety. Where reporters and photographers lurk, no one will dare make a move against you.”