Esther Himmelfarb’s room was plain to the point of insult. The mirror over the vanity had a small crack near the base, the carpet was frayed where it met the bed skirt, and the single small window was clouded with age and grime. The only point of elegance was a white cat, enthroned on a chair upholstered in faded pink brocade.

The cat took one look at Charlotte and quit the premises, leaving Charlotte to consider where a letter might lie in plain sight without being immediately noticed—a delicate decision.

“Why, Miss Pankhurst, what a delight.”

Sir Jasper lounged in the doorway, for once free of wig and powder. His blue eyes traveled over her figure, up, down, pause, down farther. The expression in them as he sauntered into the room was not kind.

That expression gave Charlotte a salacious little thrill, truth be known. Sir Jasper’s bearing had the casual elegance of the career soldier, his manners were exquisite, he did not suffer fools, and neither did he cheat at cards or make life difficult for those who did.

He also had wonderfully muscular thighs.

“Sir Jasper.”

He came closer, his gaze thoughtful. “Am I to believe that my good fortune in finding you here results from your desire to spend time with your dear friend, Miss Himmelfarb? When last I saw her, she was instructing Quimbey on the proper approach to fouling another’s ball at croquet. His Grace was listening attentively.”

Sir Jasper had prowled closer, bringing a faint whiff of roses to Charlotte’s nose. Too late, she realized that she was alone in a bedroom with a single male, and the door barely open behind him.

“I suppose I’d best go join Miss Himmelfarb at the croquet game.”

He snatched the letter from Charlotte’s hand so quickly, indignation took a moment to battle its way through her surprise. “Give that back, sir.”

Sir Jasper stepped away, unfolded the note, and took it over to the little window.

“‘My dearest and most precious Esther—’ a sincere if unimaginative beginning. ‘After such pleasure as I have known in your company, any parting from you is torture. Rest assured I will return to your tender embrace as soon as I am able. Until we kiss again, my love, you will remain ever uppermost in my thoughts, and I shall remain exclusively and eternally, yours. Percival.’”

Sir Jasper refolded the note but did not return it, even when Charlotte held out her hand for it. “The signature is not in the same hand, it isn’t even in the same ink.”

Drat all men with keen eyesight. “It’s close enough.”

“Windham would not have been stupid enough to sign such a note. No one will believe it’s from him.” Sir Jasper didn’t believe it was from Percy Windham; that much was obvious.

Charlotte crossed the room and plopped down on the bed. “Some fellow left that note on her sidesaddle. A groom found it and gave it to my maid to leave in Miss Himmelfarb’s room. I chose to assign authorship to Lord Percival, because he’s highborn enough that the scandal won’t matter to him, and enough of a rascal that everyone will believe he’d dally like this. Quimbey is so decent he’d just marry her, and that entirely defeats the point of the exercise.”

Sir Jasper considered the note again and set it on the vanity. He joined Charlotte on the bed, making the mattress dip to the extent that she fetched up against him, hip to hip. “You are a naughty woman, Miss Pankhurst. I may, to a minor degree, have underestimated you—or possibly your determination in matrimonial matters.”

He sounded not exactly admiring, but neither was he criticizing her.

“Miss Himmelfarb has to be got rid of,” Charlotte said, in case the idea was too subtle for the baronet’s masculine brain. “She’s ruining all of our chances, at Quimbey, at Lord Tony, Lord Percival, at you.” The last was an afterthought added at the prodding of feminine intuition.

Sir Jasper took the bait—he also took Charlotte’s hand. “I do not flatter myself a mere baronet would be worthy of one of your station, my lady, but with a small exercise in forgery—the signature really should match the body of the note, my dear—there’s a way I might be of service to you.”

His hand was surprisingly warm, his grasp firm. A baronet was no prize, of course, but that didn’t mean a lady couldn’t enjoy spending some time with him.

“Close the door, Sir Jasper. If we’re to discuss forgery, then privacy is in order.”

* * *

“Why a fellow has to racket about Town for two days, and then hop on his destrier in the teeming rain, ruin his boots, his lungs, and his disposition in a headlong dash for the hinterlands is beyond my feeble powers of divination.” Tony emphasized his harangue with a cough.

Percival handed off cape and gloves—both sopping wet—to a footman. “Our boots will dry out. I could not leave Miss Himmelfarb here undefended save for Quimbey’s dubious protection any longer than necessary.”

“Necessary is a relative term.”

Tony was entitled to grumble. Thrashing their way back to the Morrisette estate on the muddy tracks that passed for the king’s highways had been an ordeal; waiting another day to rejoin his intended would have been torture.

“Why, my lords!” Hippolyta Morrisette paused in the entrance to the high-ceilinged foyer to join her hands at her breastbone. “Riding about in this weather will give you an ague, and then your dear mother will ring a peal over my head for a certainty—not that we aren’t glad to see you again!”

There was something sly in her greeting, for all its effusiveness. Percy bowed without taking her hand. “My lady, greetings. If I might be so bold as to ask the whereabouts of Miss Himmelfarb?”

The gleam in Lady Morrisette’s eye became calculating. “Surely you don’t intend to greet a young lady in all your dirt, my lord?”

“Yes,” Tony said, an edge to his tone, “he most certainly does. He about killed the horses for that very purpose. Best oblige him, my lady.”

She glanced from one young lord to the other, and apparently decided to heed Tony’s advice.

“This way.” She swept toward the back of the house, and Percival followed, Tony bringing up the rear with boots squeaking and squishing.

The guests were assembled in the largest informal parlor, which was fortunate. It meant as he wound his way through the east wing, Percival had a few moments to organize his thoughts despite the screaming need to see Esther again, to make sure she’d weathered his absence without mischief befalling her.

The same instincts that had warned Percival when his superiors had sent him off on doomed errands were urging him to shove Lady Morrisette aside and ransack the house, bellowing Esther’s name until she was again in his arms.

Which would not do. Her Grace would have an apoplexy if word of such behavior reached her.

Lady Morrisette paused while a footman opened the parlor doors, and too late, Percival understood the ambush he’d charged into: Her Grace and His Grace sat reading a newspaper at the same table by the window where Esther Himmelfarb had been playing cards more than two weeks ago.

“Possible hostiles near the window,” Tony muttered, coming up on Percy’s shoulder.

Nothing possible about it, and yet, there was Esther, embroidering in a corner on a settee, Quimbey sitting beside her and looking entirely too content, while the rest of the room looked askance at the recent arrivals.

“Look who I found in the foyer!” Lady Morrisette’s cheerful announcement had all heads turning, but where Percival had expected to see welcome in Esther’s eyes, he saw guardedness.

She said something to Quimbey, who smiled like a man besotted, then went back to her embroidery.

Percy could not take his eyes off Esther—though she was ignoring him. “My apologies to the company for the state of my attire, but my errands in Town were urgent.”

The Pankhurst girl rose, as if she’d leave the room or say something, but her gaze went swiveling from Percy to Esther and back to Percy.

“Percival, what can you be about?” His mother’s tone was dry as dust. “Disgracing yourself and tracking mud all over Lady Morrisette’s carpets. Take your brother and see to your wardrobe.”

She turned a page of the newspaper laid out before her, paying no more heed to her sons than if they had been footmen caught in an indecorous exchange. His Grace neither followed up with a ducal rebuke nor interceded for his sons—of course.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Percival bowed to his mother. “Before I take my leave, I would address Miss Himmelfarb in private.”

Sir Jasper Lay-About cleared his throat. “Perhaps Miss Himmelfarb isn’t interested in what you have to say.”

The supercilious ass offered his suggestion from a pose by the fireplace, one leg bent, an elbow propped on the mantel. In full morning finery, he was the picture of gentlemanly grace. The urge to knock the presuming idiot on his backside was nigh unbearable.

“Not now, Perce,” Tony whispered. “Get the girl; then deal with the buffoon.”

Esther was watching him, but there was no welcome in her eyes. Quimbey would not have trespassed, and Esther would never have yielded to Sir Jasper’s importuning… and yet.

As Percy watched her, unease curled more tightly in the part of a man’s gut that could save his life if he listened to it. “Then I’ll say my piece to her here.”

Like a marionette whose strings had been jerked, Charlotte Pankhurst came to life. “Esther Himmelfarb, how could I have forgotten! I have been remiss, and I do beg your pardon. I promised to give you back the correspondence you gave me for safekeeping, and it completely slipped my mind.”