If he-they-attempted to clear his name and failed…

That was one scenario he didn't ever want to face. To raise the spectre of having a life he'd accepted as denied him long ago, only to see that hope dashed irretrievably. To know she would be tainted by the association; impossible for her interest to go unremarked.

And, despite all, one point had never, over all the years, escaped him-if he hadn't murdered old Buxton, who had?

Since his return to London, he'd grown even more equivocal about learning the answer to that question. Yet uncovering and publishing that answer might well be what it took to clear his name.

Dragging in a breath, he forced his gaze from her, looked out over the garden and tried to drag his senses in, tried to erect some barrier between himself and the woman he was with-usually an easy task.

He'd never managed it with her. And the balcony was so damned small. "There's no point pursuing it. There's nothing I, or even we, can do." He added, his tone harsh, "I didn't tell you the tale to gain your support-I told you so you'd understand why I have no future in the ton." He paused, then added, "The past is dead and buried."

Silence, then she spoke softly, "Buried, perhaps-but not dead."

He didn't glance her way, didn't want to see her face, her eyes.

After a moment, she went on, her tone hardening, "I find it difficult to believe that you're deliberately turning your back on your life-on what your life would be if your name was cleared."

Would be, he noted, not could; she had a single-mindedness he found disarming.

When he didn't respond, she exploded. "Why?" The word rang with frustration. "I know you well enough to know you have a reason."

He had a plethora of reasons, none of which she needed to know. He could readily imagine her opinion, her demolition of his concern for her. He forced himself to look into her brilliant eves, saw emotion glittering in the blue, and knew in that instant that he had to make her believe she'd misjudged him, that all she'd learned of him over the past weeks she'd misread.

Refusing to let himself consider the ramifications-her pain or his-he slowly and clearly stated, his gaze steady on her eyes, 'There is no compelling reason that I can see to mount such a desperate action, to rake over coals long dead. Returning to the ton, being restored to the grandes dames' good graces, is not important to me."

The emphasis he placed on those last four words was brutal; she drew back-he felt it physically, a sudden chill, a loss of warmth. Her expression turned neutral; her eyes, suddenly shuttered, searched his. Then she softly repeated, "Not important. I see."

She looked toward the long windows spilling light upon them. Then she drew in a tight breath. "My apologies. Clearly, I've mistaken your… desire to reclaim the life you were raised to live." Stiffly inclining her head, she reached for the doors. "I'll leave you to the life you prefer. Good-bye."

Not "Good night." Martin watched her open the door and step through the lace curtains; one fist clenched on the railing, he watched her, head high, walk into the room, watched the crowd swallow her. He trusted that Carmarthen would escort her home. Turning his back on the lighted room, he leaned on the railing and looked over the darkened garden, into the night his life had become.

"He said, 'No.' Refused! Absolutely." Amanda kicked her skirts and swung around. "He said it-me, us!-wasn't important!"

Amelia watched Amanda pace distractedly across her bedchamber. "Are you sure he understood all you were alluding to?"

"Oh, he understood, all right! There's nothing wrong with his understanding! But as for the rest of him!" With a muted shriek, Amanda whirled and paced on.

Perturbed, Amelia waited. Her sister had a greater flair for the histrionic than she, but in all their lives, she'd never seen

Amanda more sincerely overset. Overset, however, was unlikely to help her twin's cause.

After a time, she ventured, "So-are you giving up?"

"Giving up?" Amanda halted and stared at her. "Of course not."

Amelia relaxed on the bed. "What are you going to do?" Amanda met her gaze, then came and flopped on the bed alongside her. She stared up at the canopy. Her chin was set, her expression mulish. "I don't know." An instant later she added, "But I'll think of something."

Three nights later, Martin returned to Gloucester Street, summoned by Helen Hennessy. He'd had no intention of attending, but Helen's note had been succinct and to the point-she wanted him there. They were friends enough that, given he had nothing better to do, he'd felt obliged to humor her.

She greeted him warmly, as always smoothly sophisticated.

"Cut line," he informed her. "I'm here-why?" She raised both brows at him. "Your manners are deteriorating-always a telling sign."

He frowned. Before he could ask what his deterioration signified, Helen waved to a corner of the room. "But as to why you're here, I suspect you need to be aware of your lady friend's activities."

Martin met her gaze. "Which lady friend?"

"Miss Cynster, of course. And pray don't waste your breath telling me she's not your friend." Helen prodded his arm. "Carmarthen didn't accompany her tonight-she came alone. And rather than glower at me, I suggest such expressions might better serve us all over there." Her nod indicated the corner; her mask fell and she was serious. "Truly, I think you'd better take a look. Whatever you do after that is entirely up to you."

Martin held her gaze, then nodded. "I'll look." Helen's brows rose; he ignored the sign and turned to the comer she'd indicated. If she thought he'd thank her for summoning him to Amanda Cynster's aid, she would need to think again.

It didn't occur to him to leave without seeing whatever Helen had wanted him to see, not until, skirting the walls, he caught sight of the group in the corner. Then he swore under his breath, and wished he'd left. But it was too late then.

He wasn't fool enough to charge in without assessing the situation. He could see why Helen was concerned; the group before him was without precedent, a volatile and likely explosive mix.

Amanda had assembled an extraordinary number of the most eligible but lecherous rakes in town, thus attracting the attention of the well-bred madams who cruised Helen's rooms. Few could hold a candle to Amanda-they would have seen her as an upstart competitor. Should have seen her as such, but something had got twisted. And Martin knew who'd done the twisting.

Instead of hissing and showing their claws, the other, more mature ladies and Miss Cynster had come to some mutual understanding. Martin could guess what such an understanding might entail, but from the enthralled looks on the gentlemen's faces, the fact that Amanda herself was not about to play their game tonight had not yet sunk in.

Then again…

He watched her flirt with an elegant roue, and wondered whether he should be so cocksure. She was a prize at any price but in this arena, she promised an experience well beyond the norm. She was not only beautiful, sensually attractive, untarnished and intelligent, she was also quick-witted, independent-defiantly feminine. There were connoisseurs enough in the circle around her who would appreciate that.

Not, however, tonight. Regardless of her plans.

After a narrow-eyed assessment, he rejected a frontal assault. Turning away, he beckoned a footman.

Laughing up at Lord Rawley, Amanda lifted the note from the salver, flicked it open-and nearly dropped it. She hadn't known Dexter was present; she'd been so intent, so on edge, she hadn't felt his gaze… hadn't seen him.

"I say-what is it? Bad news?"

She glanced up to find Lord Rawley and all the other gentlemen looking seriously concerned. "Ah… no." The instant brightening of their expressions told her why they'd been concerned. "That is…" She crumpled the note, suppressed an urge to rub her forehead. "I'm not sure."

This was what she'd wanted, schemed to get. But why was he waiting in the front hall?

She smiled at her admirers. "There's a messenger in the hall I must speak with. If you'll excuse me for a moment?"

Lady Elrood led the chorus. "Of course, my dear."

Amanda slipped away before any gentleman could offer to accompany her.

Stepping from the crowded drawing room into the front hall, she looked toward the front door, and saw no one bar two footmen. Before she could turn and look toward the stairs, her cloak fell over her shoulders.

Before she could react, the hood was yanked down over her face. Arms like steel wrapped about her and lifted her from the floor.

"The door, you dolts-open it!"

Any doubt she might have harbored over the identity of her attacker fled. She wriggled, tried to kick-all to no avail. By the time she thought of screaming, Dexter had carried her over the threshold and started down the steps. She quieted, waiting to be put down.

He reached the pavement, took two strides, hefted her-and tossed her unceremoniously onto a carriage seat.

Fury erupting, she fought to free herself from the folds of her cloak.

The carriage door slammed; she heard a shout. The carriage shot forward as if fleeing from the devil himself. She struggled free of the cloak-and saw the facades along Bel-grave Road flashing past. Absolutely stunned, she slumped back against the seat.

How dared he?

She was so shocked, then so incensed, she couldn't form a coherent thought. The carriage rocketed along, barely slowing to take corners; she had to hang onto the strap to keep upright. Not until the carriage slowed, then rocked to a stop, could she collect her scattered wits.