“For God’s sake!” Hart sprang to his feet.

Everyone at the table stopped and stared at him, including Ian. “Do I have to be made a mockery of in my own house?”

Mac leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “Would you prefer we made a mockery of you in the street? In Hyde Park, maybe? In the middle of Pall Mall? The card room at your club?”

“Mac, shut it!”

A faint laugh escaped Lord Ramsay’s mouth, which he covered with a cough. Hart looked down at his plate and noticed the sausage he’d taken a bite from now missing. He hadn’t eaten it.

The sound of breathy chewing came from under the table, and Eleanor looked suddenly innocent.

A shout worked its way up through Hart’s throat, and he couldn’t stop it coming out of his mouth. His voice rang against the crystals of the chandeliers, and Ben stopped crunching.

Hart slammed away from the table, his chair falling over behind him. Somehow he got himself out of the room, walking as swiftly as he could down the hall and toward the stairs. Behind him, he heard Eleanor say, “Goodness, what is the matter with him this morning?”


Just as well Hart had gone, Eleanor thought, lifting her fork in an unsteady hand. She felt quite shy with him this morning, after the heady kisses in the laundry room and him holding her on the railing in the upstairs hall. She was wearing the very drawers he’d pulled out of the laundry pile last night, Maigdlin having brought them upstairs this morning.

Maigdlin had said nothing about servants finding the laundry in a sad state, because they hadn’t. Eleanor had stayed behind and refolded every single garment before rejoining Isabella to help her through the rest of the ball.

When Eleanor had slid on the drawers this morning, she’d remembered Hart pressing a kiss to the fabric and telling her to think of him. Eleanor had, and now she swore she could feel the imprint of his lips on her backside.

Eleanor lifted the remaining sausage from Hart’s plate and fed it to Ben. “Why are you writing out potential brides for Hart?”

Isabella laid down her pencil. “I am not. This is all flummery, Eleanor. We all know that you are his perfect match; he just needs a push to get there.”

Eleanor felt chilled. “I believe he is right about one thing, Izzy. This is his business, and mine.”

“Now, don’t go all haughty on me. You know I am right. Am I not right, Lord Ramsay?”

Lord Ramsay folded his paper and laid it on the table, the last page ready to read. “It would not be so bad a thing for you to marry him, El.”

Eleanor stared at him in surprise. “I thought you were happy when I broke the engagement. You stood up to Hart with me.”

“Yes, indeed, I agreed at the time. Hart was arrogant and even dangerous, and you were not well suited. But now, things are different. I am growing old, my dear, and when I die I will leave you penniless. Destitute. I’d rest much easier knowing you had all this.” He waved his hand at the grand dining room.

Eleanor stabbed her fork into her eggs. “Well, it doesn’t matter what you all want, or even what I want. It isn’t up to us, is it?”

Across the table, Ian had fixed his attention on the pot of honey. As though he didn’t realize he was doing it, he reached for it, lifted the dripper, and let the golden stream of honey fall back into the pot.

“What do you think, Ian?” Eleanor asked. At least from Ian, she’d get honesty. Brutal honesty, but that’s what she needed.

Ian didn’t answer. He lifted the dripper again, swirling the sticky honey, watching it fall in a sunlit swath.

“Leave him alone,” Mac said. “He’s thinking of Beth.”

“Is he?” Eleanor asked. “How do you know?”

Mac winked at her. “Trust me. An excellent idea you had with the honey, Ian. You may trust me on that too.”

Isabella flushed, but she did not look unhappy. “I believe Cameron started that bit of nonsense.”

“Not nonsense.” Mac licked his finger and bent to Isabella. “Tasty.”

Lord Ramsay smiled and took his attention back to his paper. Eleanor watched Ian.

“You miss her,” she said to him.

Ian dragged his gaze from the honey and fixed it on Eleanor, eyes as golden as the liquid he stirred. “Yes.”

“You’ll see her soon enough,” Mac said. “We’re off to Berkshire next week.”

Ian didn’t answer, but Eleanor saw in Ian’s fleeting glance that next week would not be soon enough. She set down her fork, pushed back her chair, and went around the table to him.

Mac and Isabella watched in surprise as Eleanor put her arms around Ian and bent down to kiss his cheek. They tensed, waiting to see what Ian would do. Ian did not like being touched by anyone except Beth or his children.

But Ian had looked so lonely sitting there that Eleanor felt compelled to comfort him. Ian had left his beloved Beth to travel to London to ensure that his oldest brother didn’t break Eleanor’s heart. A noble and generous deed.

“I will be all right,” Eleanor said to him. “Go back to her.”

Ian remained still while Mac and Isabella held their breaths and pretended not to. Even Eleanor’s father glanced up, concerned.

Ian slowly lifted his hand and gave Eleanor’s wrist a warm squeeze. “Beth has already left for Berkshire,” he said. “I will meet her there.”

“You’ll go today?” Eleanor said.

“Today. Curry will pack for me.”

“Good. Give her my love.” Eleanor pressed another kiss to his cheek and rose.

Isabella and Mac let out their breaths and went back to the remains of their breakfasts, carefully not looking at Ian. Eleanor walked back to her place, wiping away the tears that had started in her eyes.


“Wilfred,” Eleanor said several hours later, looking up from her Remington. “This letter has nothing in it. You’ve written a name and an address, and that is all.”

Wilfred removed his spectacles and looked across his desk at her. “No letter, my lady,” he said. “Just enclose the cheque inside the blank paper and address the envelope.”

To Mrs. Whitaker, Eleanor typed on the envelope. “That is all? No note saying, Here is payment for… or Please accept this contribution to your charitable works…?”

“No, my lady.” Wilfred said.

“Who is this Mrs. Whitaker?” Eleanor asked as she rolled the platen to type the address. “And why is Hart sending her…” She turned over the cheque Wilfred had placed facedown on her desk. “One thousand guineas?”

“His Grace can be generous,” Wilfred said.

Eleanor stared at him, but Wilfred only bent his head and went back to writing.

Eleanor had learned that Wilfred was a poor source of information about the Mackenzie family. The man refused to gossip about anything or anyone. This quality was likely why Hart had promoted him from valet to private secretary, but Eleanor found it quite inconvenient. Wilfred was discretion made man.

Wilfred was a human being some of the time, Eleanor knew. He had a daughter and a granddaughter in Kent and doted on them both. He kept their photos in his desk drawer, bought them chocolates and little gifts, and boasted of their accomplishments to Eleanor, in his quiet way.

However, Wilfred never spoke about his shady past when he’d been an embezzler; never mentioned a Mrs. Wilfred; and never, ever told tales about Hart. If Wilfred did not want Eleanor to know why Hart was sending one thousand guineas to this Mrs. Whitaker, Wilfred would take the secret to his grave.

Eleanor gave up, typed the address on the envelope—George Street, near Portman Square—and neatly folded the cheque inside the paper.

Perhaps Hart had found the source of the photographs. Perhaps he was paying the woman to destroy them or to keep quiet about them, or perhaps to persuade her to send him the rest.

Or Mrs. Whitaker might have absolutely nothing to do with the photographs.

Eleanor tucked the cheque into the envelope, closed it, and added the envelope to her stack of finished correspondence.


The house near Portman Square where Mrs. Whitaker lived was ordinary-looking enough. Eleanor studied it carefully as she strolled past for the third time.

Eleanor had used the pretense of doing some shopping to journey to Portman Square, timing the outing to coincide with Isabella returning to her own house to argue with the decorators. In order to lend verisimilitude, Eleanor wandered the shops on the square and nearby streets, buying little gifts for the Mackenzie children and their mothers. Maigdlin trailed her, carrying packages.

Eleanor had seen no activity at all in or around Mrs. Whitaker’s house in the hour or so she’d drifted up and down George Street. No maids cleaning the stoop or footmen walking out to pass the time of day with the maids next door. The blinds remained closed, the door firmly shut.

In order to linger on the street a little longer, Eleanor started browsing the carts of the street vendors, deciding to buy a present for Cameron’s son Daniel. That Daniel was now eighteen was difficult for Eleanor to swallow. He’d been a wild and unhappy child when Eleanor had first met him, always in some scrape or another, earning Cameron’s wrath. He’d resisted Eleanor’s attempts to be motherly, but he had shown Eleanor his collection of live beetles, which Hart had told her was an honor.

Daniel had turned out all right, she’d seen, despite growing up in a houseful of Mackenzie bachelors. He was settled at the university in Edinburgh now, and seemed happy enough.

Eleanor was startled out of thoughts of Daniel by the door of Mrs. Whitaker’s house opening. A footman, a large, beefy lad like Hart’s footmen, came out of it. At the same time a carriage pulled up, and the footman hurried the few steps across the pavement to open the coach’s door.