The answer sped out, “On the ballroom floor…but no one heard!”

“Alexandra!” her mother cried.

“No one?” This from the duke.

“Well, no one except Freddie.”

When her father spoke next, he did so with a tone of humor. “I’d lay odds that, considering Blackmoor’s opinion of Stanhope, he hardly thinks of him as ‘no one.’”

“Quite,” Her Grace added. “Yes, well, that would explain why you and Gavin had a falling-out.”

Alex was about to again defend herself when the sound of Harquist clearing his throat interrupted her. Alex turned in surprise, as Harquist rarely had much to say this late in the evening. The old man spoke quickly, “My lord and ladies, Lord Blackmoor is here and requests an audience.”

Alex turned a stunned look on her mother and father, who looked surprised and curious respectively. She spoke in an urgent whisper. “Father, don’t accept him, please? I can’t have another moment of his overbearing attitude this evening.”

“I most certainly will accept him, Alexandra,” replied the Duke. “You’ll have to suffer through. Send him in, Harquist, thank you.”

Alex sent a pleading look at her mother, who made no move to rescue her youngest child and only daughter. Alex wondered if she had enough time to escape the room before Blackmoor arrived.

“My lord,” Gavin spoke as he crossed the threshold, “forgive me for calling at such a late hour.”

Drat. No escape, Alex thought to herself as she patently avoided looking at him.

“It’s never too late an hour for you, Gavin.” Alex’s father stood. “You look like the Devil. What’s happened to you?”

Alex couldn’t help but look up at Gavin upon hearing the tone in her father’s voice. He did indeed look the worse for wear. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, as though he’d run all the way over. Was it possible he’d come to apologize? One of her eyebrows rose in curiosity as he opened his mouth to speak.

“I never would have bothered you had it not been a matter of particular import. You see—” Alex leaned forward. Could it be that he was going to confess his actions at the Worthington House dinner? What could he possibly be here for in the middle of the night?

“It’s Blackmoor House. I’ve been robbed.”

fourteen

He stalked his rooms, furious.

This night had been essential to his plans. He’d convinced his partners that they should give him one more chance—one more day to discover what they were desperate to find. He’d promised that he would find the documents they now knew the deceased earl had possessed. He’d sworn he could complete this—the smallest of tasks. For he knew that if anyone else found the information before him, his would be the first neck placed in the hangman’s noose.

And he had failed.

He’d not given the study as thorough an inspection as he’d wanted. He’d started…he’d emptied the desk and searched the cupboards. He’d just begun to examine the bookshelves when he saw the carriage lanterns in the drive of Worthington House and realized that his time had run out.

If only the brat hadn’t come home early from the ball. If only he’d stayed out with the rest of the shallow, debauched members of the ton, celebrating in excess, as though there were nothing in the world to worry about. What could have happened to force him to come home hours before he was expected? Maybe the Worthington twit had taken ill…leaving Blackmoor little more to do than escort her home. What good manners. He sneered at the thought.

And then, in an instant, he was struck with an undeniable sense of calm. The solution was clear, as though there had never been any doubt.

Without information, there was no way he could be caught, and the boy was the only person convinced there was more to the earl’s death than appeared at first glance. The boy was the problem—always had been. The Earl of Blackmoor was all that was left between him and his safety. His freedom. Without him, no one would care to search for answers about the happenings on the Essex estate. No one would care to discover the truth about the earl’s death.

The solution was clear.

He already had Blackmoor blood on his hands. What was a little more?

Several hours later, Alex was still in the library with her mother, only now they were waiting for the return of her father from Blackmoor House, where he’d gone immediately following Blackmoor’s startling announcement.

Blackmoor’s words were still hanging in the air when the duke had leapt into action, asking Harquist to wake the footmen to take messages to the Bow Street Runners, the private investigators who kept the peace in London, and to the Marquess of Langford, who was one of the best investigators in Britain. Once the messengers were dispatched, the duke and young earl returned to Blackmoor House to assess the situation. His Grace had said little, except to tell his wife and daughter that they should not wait for him to return before retiring to their beds.

Of course, the Stafford women had no intention of taking to their bedchambers before they knew what exactly had transpired that evening at Blackmoor House and what was going to be done to find the criminal who had robbed Gavin.

Alex had alternately attempted to read, to embroider, and to catch up on her correspondence to cousins on the Continent, to no avail. Instead, now she found herself awake at quarter past three in the morning, listening to the sound of her mother’s breathing as the duchess napped in her chair.

The waiting gave her plenty of time to reflect on her behavior at the ball, at the Worthington dinner, and in the two weeks that separated the events, as well as on her own feelings for Blackmoor, which she was terrified to admit.