Fitter than ever, to Amelia’s eyes.

“As you wish,” Bellamy said. “Can we cut across the gardens? Until we’ve spoken with Lily, I’m loath to draw public notice.”

Again, all three men looked to Amelia.

She paused. Obviously, it would not escape the guests’ attention that she and the Duke of Morland had disappeared into the night. But all would be explained, once Leo’s death became public knowledge tomorrow. And it wasn’t as though they were alone.

She nodded. “Very well.”

Bellamy and Ashworth cleared the railing easily. Their boots landed in the flowerbed with a soft squish before they rounded the hedge and disappeared the same way they’d come. Morland went next, stepping over the rail one long leg at a time.

He directed Amelia to sit on the balustrade, then to swing her legs across. She did so, in rather ungainly fashion. A fold of her gown became tangled in the closure of her slipper, and that made for some seconds’ delay. At last freed, she prepared to slide down from the rail. It was only a few feet to the ground.

The duke stopped her.

“Allow me,” he said, placing his hands about her waist. “It’s muddy here.”

At her nod of assent, Amelia found herself in those powerful arms for the second time that evening. Lifted effortlessly from the balustrade, swung over the flowerbed, and deposited on the raked gravel path. Gently, this time. Surely she was reading far too much into it, but she couldn’t help but imagine he was making amends. Offering an unspoken apology for his brutish behavior in the ballroom.

“Oh,” she said, swaying a bit as he released her. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he replied, laying a hand to the coat pocket where he’d placed her handkerchief. “For earlier.”

“We needn’t speak of it. Are you well?”

“Yes.”

Together they followed the path the other men had taken, walking alongside one another. He did not offer his arm. He did, however, point out a toad in the path an instant before she would have stepped on it.

As they rounded the front corner of the house and approached the paved driveway where the carriages and drivers sat waiting, he spoke once again. “What does it stand for, the C?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your initial.” He patted his pocket again.

“Oh.” Understanding dawned. “Claire. It stands for Claire. Amelia Claire.”

He nodded and walked on.

Amelia purposely fell behind.

Ninny, ninny. They passed a piece of bronze statuary, and Amelia longed to bash her head against it. What an absolute muffin she was. He’d asked her a question once. She had to answer it three times? “Claire,” she mimicked quietly, adopting the voice of a parrot. “It stands for Claire. Amelia Claire.”

She recognized, and rued, the giddy flutter in her belly: infatuation. It could not have happened at a worse time. Nothing good could come of it. And of all the gentlemen in London, this one? She hadn’t been exaggerating in the ballroom, when she’d told him he danced divinely and was undeniably handsome. Nor when she’d confessed an unchaste longing to touch his dark, curling hair. And he really did lift the hairs on her neck. True, all of it true.

He’s horrid, she silently told herself. Loutish, arrogant, insufferable! He refused to release Jack from debt. He insulted you. He bodily hauled you from a ballroom and then offered you money to just please go away! And for heaven’s sake, you are on your way to tell Lily Chatwick her twin brother is dead. You are a depraved, deranged woman, Amelia Claire-Claire-Claire d’Orsay!

It was just … something about those few unrehearsed moments, when a strange rustling in the hedge made them forget debts and insults and act on instinct alone. And she’d rushed to his side with her treasured handkerchief, and he’d put his body between her and the unknown. She could not escape the feeling that they’d formed an unspoken alliance and were now acting as a team.

He touched a hand to his coat pocket again. He kept doing that. And every time he did, her knees went weak.

Oh, Lord.

They reached the carriage. It was an impressive conveyance. Jet-black, glossy, emblazoned with the Morland ducal crest, and drawn by a team of four perfectly matched black horses.

The duke helped her in, closing one of his hands about her fingers and placing the other against the small of her back. Bellamy and Ashworth had already situated themselves on the rear-facing seat, leaving Amelia and Morland to share the front-facing one.

Nothing about this situation should thrill her. It was terrible, the way his authoritative command to the driver shot sparks to her toes. It was unpardonable, how she sat toward the middle of the seat and allowed her body to fall against his as the carriage lurched into motion.

“How did Harcliffe die?” the duke asked.

Thank you, Amelia said silently, scooting away from him until she hugged the outer edge of the seat. Thank you for reminding me of the gravity of our situation and the utter inappropriateness of my thoughts.

“Footpads,” said Bellamy. “He was beaten to death in the street, in Whitechapel. It appears to have been a random attack.”

“Good God.”

It was too dark for Amelia to make out the expressions of anyone in the coach. She reckoned, therefore, it was too dark for them to see hers. And so she permitted herself a rush of hot, silent tears.

This wasn’t right. Waterloo was over; the war had ended. Young, handsome men at the peak of vitality were supposed to stop dying. Only a few weeks ago, she’d spied Leo at the theater. He’d taken a box with some of his friends. The lot of them were loud and disruptive in the way only Leo’s friends could be, because Leo was always forgiven everything. Everyone loved him so.

Amelia shuddered. Beaten to death, by footpads. If such a thing could happen to Leo … it could so easily have been Jack.

“It could have been me,” said Bellamy. “God, it should have been me. I was supposed to go with him tonight, but I begged off.” His rough voice cracked. “What a damned bloody waste. If I’d been there, I might have prevented it.”

“Or you might have been killed, too.”

“Better me than him. He had a title, responsibilities, a sister to protect.” He swore violently. “What will become of Lily now? This is all my fault. The boxing match was my idea in the first place. And I begged off. I begged off, to spend the evening with that harlot Carnelia.” He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

Amelia supposed he must refer to the very scandalous, very married Lady Carnelia Hightower. Though her mind reeled, she remained silent. The last thing she wanted was to remind all three men there was a lady in the carriage and cause them to temper their remarks. For Lily’s sake, she wanted to gather all the information she could. For once, the quality of being invisible to men worked in her favor.

The duke cleared his throat. “You called it a random attack. If that is the case … well then, random is random. It might have been anyone.”

“It wouldn’t have been me.” This came from Ashworth, the taciturn giant across from her. “I cannot die.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” Amelia asked, abandoning her intention to remain silent. It was such a shocking statement to make, and something in the low rasp of his voice told her he did not speak from arrogance.

“Because I’ve tried, several times. And as you see, I’ve failed on each occasion.”

She had no response to that.

“Ask your friend Morland,” he continued. “I’m bloody hard to knock down.”

Beside her, the duke tensed. Clearly the two men had some history of enmity.

“Enough.” Mr. Bellamy raised his head, scrubbing at his eyes with his palm. “We’ve no time for this. Leo is gone. It’s Lily we need to discuss. As Leo died without issue, the Harcliffe title, estate, properties—including the town house—will all pass to some distant cousin. She probably has a legacy due her, but given her condition, she cannot live independently in Town.”

No, she couldn’t, Amelia silently agreed. Poor Lily. She must find some way to help her. “What do you propose, Mr. Bellamy?”

The man looked from Ashworth to Morland. “My lord, Your Grace—one of you must marry her.”

“Marry her?” Spencer blinked. “Did you just say one of us must marry her?”

“Yes.”

Sighing deeply, he raised a hand to his temple. No offense intended to the deceased, nor to Lily Chatwick and her mysterious “condition.” It was just that this situation would clearly require a great deal of discussion, and he’d far exceeded his allotment of civil speech for the evening.

What he wanted to do was to go home, toss back two fingers of brandy, and prostrate himself on the library floor—well, on the carpet; the floor was unforgiving oak, and he wasn’t an ascetic monk, after all—until this damned whirling clamor in his head cleared. Come morning, he’d take Juno out for a rambling canter, probably halfway to Dover and back. She was uneasy in Town, unused to the crowds and noise. A long ride over open country would put them both to rights. Afterward, he’d give the mare a proper grooming himself. She was touchy with these London stablehands, and they were never able to do a thorough job. After all that … perhaps dinner before he went out in search of cards.

That was what he wanted to do. But, as so often happened, what he wanted and what was required of him were disparate things.

“The Stud Club code states,” said Bellamy, “that in the event of a member’s untimely demise, the brotherhood is honor bound to care for his dependents. With her brother gone, Lily will need a protector. She must marry.”

“Then why don’t you do it?” Ashworth asked. “You are obviously well acquainted with her. Weren’t you and Harcliffe friends?”

“The closest of friends, yes. Which is precisely why I cannot do it. Lady Lily Chatwick is the sister of a marquess. Her ancestry includes several royals. I believe Leo once told me she’s thirteenth in line for the Crown. I am …” Bellamy pressed a fist against the seat cushion. “I am no one of consequence.”

Well, on that point he and Spencer were in complete agreement. He despised the vain upstart. From what he heard at the tables, Bellamy had arrived out of nowhere some three years ago. Despite the man’s vague origins, even the veriest snobs invited him to every rout and card party, for his amusement value alone. He was an uncanny mimic.

Spencer had once watched from a doorway as Bellamy regaled an audience of dozens with his bawdy imitations of Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb. He thought the man a pathetic clown, but the young bucks of the ton worshipped him. They mimicked the mimic: imitated his style of dress, his manner of walking, his cutting witticisms. Some went so far as to have their valets apply some noxious mixture of soot and egg whites to their scalp, to imitate his riffled black hair.

Spencer had no interest in the man’s hair or fashion, and nothing but contempt for his cheap brand of humor. But he did have a keen interest in one thing of Bellamy’s: the brass token that made him a member of the Stud Club.

“It will have to be Morland,” said Ashworth. “I’m not marrying her.”

“You would be damned lucky to marry her,” Bellamy said. “She’s a lovely, intelligent lady.”

“I’m certain she is. But the last thing I’d do to a woman I admired is marry her.”

Spencer couldn’t resist. “Oh, you’ve a shred of decency now? Where did that come from, I wonder? Perhaps you found it lying around a battlefield.”

“Perhaps I did,” the man said evenly. “I know I didn’t meet with you there.”

Spencer glowered. Just like the bastard, to deal him a low blow. As a youth, there’d been nothing he wanted more than to follow his father’s example and purchase a commission in the Army. But when his father died, Spencer became the late duke’s heir. Suddenly he had a title, duties, responsibilities. He would have been risking hundreds of lives in battle, not merely his own. Farewell, visions of glory.