The way he had induced her almost made her smile again.

Watching her through heavy-lidded eyes as she arrived late to bed last night, waiting for her to disrobe, making her feel a delicious wanton, wickedness guiding her movements. He’d taught her he loved her to take control in the bedroom, and how much she enjoyed doing so. As well as when he took over, unwilling or unable to wait.

Her body heating with the remembrance, she worked on concentrating on her steps when another military gentleman took her on to the floor.

The rooms were filling nicely as the evening went on and people were staying, not taking one look and leaving, as people sometimes did. The terror of boredom seemed endemic in London society.

Either that, or the vying for attention led to fatigue with the efforts.

For the first time Faith appreciated her decision to be herself, rather than don a persona for her public appearances. While she understood their need for privacy, now more than ever, she knew that would not work for her.

As her latest dance partner took her towards the sideboard where light refreshments and drink were laid out, her foot slipped.

She frowned down at the polished wood, the floor consisting of pieces of wood inserted in a detailed pattern. This room was intended for dancing and she had no wish for her rooms to be turned into ice by over-zealous servants.

Just one piece, the black. She would ensure that never happened again.

When she looked up, it was into a familiar pair of brown eyes.

The hooked nose and austere features, combined with the dark, bushy eyebrows often deterred most people from familiarity with him. But Faith had seen him in very different circumstances to these and she could smile at the most distinguished soldier in the nation with unreserved pleasure.

He took her hand and bowed over it. “Lady Graywood, it’s a delight to meet you again.”

“Your grace, thank you for coming.”

She’d expected to see her husband when such an honoured guest arrived, and she wasn’t disappointed. John bowed and the two men exchanged the greeting that old colleagues might engage in, after formal bows were disposed of.

The duke surveyed the ballroom. “I see my influence has not entirely died. I brought the Arbuthnots. I trust you are not as much a stickler as some?”

The strong rumours surrounding the Duke of Wellington and Mrs. Arbuthnot were not abating. However, few people had shunned them either. Nobody denied the hero of Waterloo. “I’m flattered,” she said before John could comment. “Mrs. Arbuthnot is reported to be an engaging and intelligent woman and I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

A bit of flattery to the people who meant the most to him rarely went amiss. The duke favoured her with a warm smile. “Indeed she is. I would be delighted to introduce you.” His marriage a failure since he returned from Belgium, the duchess residing in the country for the most part, everyone knew the duke took his pleasures elsewhere, and Mrs. Arbuthnot was the current favourite, albeit with the connivance of her husband.

Faith blinked. His grace was granting particular attention to her.

At the most she’d hoped for a brief appearance, but Wellington showed every indication of remaining and exerting his charm, which was considerable but rarely used for anything or anyone he disliked. He was not appreciated in some quarters, but the majority applauded his efforts for the country. Without him, Britain might not have come out of the recent bloody and expensive wars as well as it had.

Now the man frequently proclaimed the saviour of the nation was leading her out for the next country dance. Beyond her wildest dreams. Even the dowager was wearing a satisfied expression, as near as Faith had seen to an outright smile.

She was happy. Her ball, thanks in great part to the dowager and John was a great success. She had found the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and she finally had a purpose.

What could possibly go wrong?

Unfortunately, Roker and David Carlisle had decided to attend this evening. Faith had hoped they would not but had sent the invitations as a matter of courtesy when the idea for the ball was first mooted. As Wellington guided her through the steps and then they separated to perform the parts of the dance that would bring them back together at the end she took the opportunity to observe the two men who for their disparate reasons wanted to see her husband humiliated, or at the least brought under their thumbs.

Carlisle would prefer to continue running the estate his way and maybe he was also in cahoots with Roker, who had been robbing the estate blind for years. John had told her everything, shared all his information with her. There was no longer any doubt.

Faith had no doubt John would be dismissing the two man, perhaps prosecuting them in the courts after the ball. Just as she knew Roker must be aware of his intention, because John had commandeered his files and had not returned them. The bookroom was piled high with dusty old ledgers, and the door fitted with a new lock. He and his associates had drawn up a final report, had it copied and distributed around various offices, so destroying the evidence wasn’t possible.

At least they weren’t downstairs trying to break in to the study.

John had stationed a footman inside the room in case anyone tried any such ploy.

The duke executed a tricky turn, bringing them back together and as she spun under his arm, she caught sight of her husband, stern-faced, confronting Roker and Carlisle. Something untoward was happening. Edward Smith was approaching the group at a fair clip. Faith didn’t have to see her to know the dowager was keeping a weather eye on what was fast becoming a confrontation.

Although she badly wanted to cross the room and give him her support, she dared not because she was partnering the guest of honour. She didn’t want to let him anywhere near the people standing to one side of the bathroom. Even though they were speaking softly, that would not last long, if the expression on John’s face was any indication of the progression of affairs.

Before she could prevent him, the Duke of Wellington escorted her off the dance floor, heedless of the pattern in the dance. He headed for the little group with determination, herding Faith, his hand grazing the small of her back.

“There appears to be no evidence of the marriage,” Roker said, his voice ringing clearly so as many people as possible could hear.

He flourished his paper. “This says that your wife’s first husband was killed at Waterloo, not just before it. That would not give you the opportunity to marry her before the battle. Moreover, there is no record of your marriage, my lord. I have searched for it, since you did not see proper to furnish me with the papers I asked of you.”

A chill spread rapidly through Faith’s body, invading every part of her, until the blood in her veins threatened to freeze. She couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything, words whirling through her head, none of them making any sense.

Control, Faith.

Dignity was all that remained to her. Her thoughts coalesced, settled, and all the while Roker was destroying her life, word by word. She’d only just begun to believe in what she’d gained, but now with her world crashing around her, she recalled what had got her here. A lie. She’d adopted a life not her own, used assets that didn’t belong to her. Nemesis had come to collect the debt.

Roker waved his damned piece of paper under John’s nose.

“This says there was not enough time between Smith’s death and the battle for you to have married his widow.”

John raised a brow, never so haughty as in this moment. “Your assiduity does you proud. A shame I cannot say the same of your legitimate work.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Indeed you have, sir.” John glanced around, caught her eye and Faith knew what he meant to do.

John was about to reveal the secret he had worked so hard to conceal—that the Graywood estate was all but bankrupt. The information would plunge the estates into the doldrums, tell every powerful man and woman in London that the holdings were vulnerable, ripe for exploitation.

He would do this to protect her from the danger of revealing her as a deceitful whore, a woman living in sin, deceiving society and then the man she married. Rather than that, she’d confess. Her fault, all of it. He could not do this for her sake.

She took a breath and opened her mouth. “I—“

The Duke of Wellington, up until that moment a silent bystander, took a part, cutting incisively into her speech and addressing Roker. “You have incorrect information, sir. Indeed, I myself was present at the wedding.”

Faith blinked up at him. Why would he lie?

Rattled but game, Roker came back at him. “There are no records of any wedding, and if one took place then it was bigamous.

Which, as I’m sure your grace is aware, is a crime.”

The duke gave a tight smile, drawing himself to his full, considerable height. “In wartime, records may be sketchy or inaccurate. Not having faced combat, I’m sure you believe everything is carefully arranged.” In the duke’s case, it usually was.

He was always meticulous in his planning, careful to retain records, maps, and all the paperwork. For this, he was prepared to traduce his reputation? “Timing is approximate. It is true little time passed between the death of Lady Graywood’s first husband, and her marriage to her second. As far as she knew, she was widowed twice in the space of a week. I am surprised she survived, much less thrived. She is a courageous woman, followed the troops throughout much of the war, from Spain to Belgium, to bring her husband comfort and companionship. Sir, she married and she is married still.” He turned to John, effectively showing Roker and the silent, but wide-eyed David Carlisle his back. “I would appreciate it if you removed these people from my presence. I would appreciate the waltz your charming wife granted me ten minutes ago.”