“I’ll accompany you, Lady Uppington,” Miles offered angelically.

“Nobody asked you,” snapped Richard.

“Is that any way to treat your oldest friend?”

“Don’t you mean my former oldest friend?”

“Don’t yell at me; yell at Geoff. He’s the one who told me about Amy.”

“If Miles gets to go, I get to go, too!” put in Henrietta, looking mutinous. “After all, he’s not even family. If Amy’s going to be my sister, I ought to get first crack at meeting her.”

“Before you reserve the chapel,” Richard drawled, in his most obnoxious London man-about-town voice, “there are a few things that ought to be made clear.”

“Darling, you aren’t afraid we’ll embarrass you, are you? I promise, we’ll be on our best behavior, even your father.” The marchioness wrinkled her nose playfully at the marquess.

“Mother, would you stop flirting with Father for a moment and listen?”

“I never stop flirting with your father,” said Lady Uppington complacently. “That’s why we have such a happy marriage. And I hope that all of you find spouses with whom you can happily flirt for the rest of your lives.” She and Lord Uppington exchanged a look that Richard could only label gooey.

“It’s a wonder that we’ve turned out as normal as we have, isn’t it?” whispered Henrietta, coming up behind Richard’s chair.

“I still haven’t forgiven you yet,” Richard cautioned her.

“Oh, but you will,” Henrietta said blithely, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I’m your favorite sister, remember? Besides,” she added, casting a glance around the room, “you know you’ll need my help keeping them in line tonight.”

“That assumes we’re going somewhere.”

Henrietta gave Richard a pitying look that said, louder than words, You can delude yourself if you like.

Henrietta knew too damn much for a nineteen-year-old.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Where is she? Where is the little witch?” An extremely irate Georges Marston burst lopsidedly through the door of the dining room where the Balcourts were partaking of supper. His angry blue eyes lit on Amy. “You!” he bellowed, limping down the length of the table.

“Sir!” Miss Gwen’s voice stopped Marston dead in his tracks. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“Her.” Marston pointed at Amy, all but frothing at the mouth. “Her!”

“She,” Miss Gwen corrected primly.

“Yes, her!” Marston’s lip curled in a manner that made Amy wish to find some pressing reason to adjourn to another room. Preferably with the door locked behind her. Her arms ached with the memory of Marston’s painful grip. She wouldn’t let him touch her again. She’d break her wineglass over his head and ward him off with the fragments. She’d break his other toe—no, that would require an unpleasant proximity.

Miss Gwen sighed. “No, Mr. Marston. Not her, she. Did your father’s family teach you no English grammar? Or has life in the army whittled away at your verbal skills until you are capable of nothing save the occasional incorrect monosyllable? Following the implied verb ‘to be,’ the noun must always be in the nominative, rather than the accusative.”

“Accusative,” repeated Marston, with a nasty look in his eye that Amy feared had little to do with grammar. “I’ll show you accusative! I accuse her!” One beefy finger pointed straight at Amy.

Amy shot up in her place. “And I accuse you of behavior unbecoming to a gentleman, and I demand you leave my house at once!”

“I think I’ll leave,” murmured Edouard, heaving his bulk out of his chair.

“Sit!” Miss Gwen commanded. Edouard sat. So, unexpectedly, did Georges Marston.

“I’ve always been very good at dealing with dogs,” commented Miss Gwen.

Georges Marston promptly stood back up.

Miss Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “Some need more training than others.”

Marston ignored her, and started again towards Amy. “What do you mean, your house? It’s his house, and he’ll do as I say, or suffer the consequences, right, Balcourt?”

“Um . . .” Edouard, having been forbidden to leave the table, seemed to be attempting to cram himself under it.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Marston, and I’m sure we can get this all sorted out,” suggested Jane.

Intent on his prey, Marston paid Jane no more mind than the candlesticks at the table, or the silent footmen by the sideboard. If Marston were to attack her, Amy wondered, would any of those white-wigged men come to her defense?

“I’m so glad you stopped by, Mr. Marston,” Jane put in, her voice pitched to carry. What on earth was Jane talking about? Amy certainly didn’t share the sentiment. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about the tea and the India muslin.”

Marston stopped dead two chairs away from Amy, his eyes and tongue bulging like those of a dog whose owner had yanked too abruptly on the leash.

“Tea,” he croaked, not turning.

“And India muslin,” Jane reminded him softly. Amy could have sworn she saw a glint of amusement in her cousin’s eye, but Jane’s demeanor was as self-contained as ever and her voice devoid of any hint of mockery. “Tell me,” she asked, in a tone that contained only innocent inquiry, “do the authorities know of your import business?”

Kaleidoscope images shifted in Amy’s head into a complete whole. The strange packages in the ballroom that Amy had hoped might contain supplies for the Purple Gentian, but hadn’t. The dirt-blackened doors and windows of the west wing. Now that Jane had put the pieces together, it was as patently obvious as Marston’s guilty fury. Edouard had never had anything to do with the Purple Gentian. Nor had Marston.

Her brother and Marston were smugglers.

Marston’s eyes darted from side to side, landing on Edouard. Turning an alarming shade of green, Edouard shook his head violently.

“But . . . the wounded man?” Amy heard herself say.

“A customs official named Pierre Laroc,” replied Jane, her gaze never wavering from Marston. “How much did you pay him to forget that little incident, Mr. Marston?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marston growled, stomping across the room to loom over Jane.

“Really? And I suppose my cousin doesn’t know anything either,” she added gently, glancing at Edouard, who was still shaking, not only his head, but the rest of his portly body as well. His cravat quivered with agitation. Jane sighed. “I suppose there is nothing for it but to ask the authorities to settle my curiosity over the tea and muslin in the ballroom. The British tea and muslin.”

Marston’s broken nose turned bright red with rage. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“You, Mr. Marston, are not in a position to make terms.”

“You can’t prove anything.” Small flecks of saliva spattered the air as Marston blustered. “The ballroom’s empty. You don’t have any proof.”

“I fear, Mr. Marston, that you are mistaken on that score. You see”—Jane smiled, a gentle curve of the lips that held the entire room silent—“I do have proof. I have your records and your correspondence. I found them secreted in a hollow globe in my cousin’s study. Your own pen tells against you.”

Marston’s large hands flexed dangerously. Jane didn’t so much as flinch.

“Touch Miss Balcourt again,” Jane warned, her voice as steely as her spine, “in anger, in lust, or even in greeting, and those papers go directly to the authorities.”

The tense silence was broken by the dry sound of Miss Gwen clapping. And then the room dissolved into madness. With a roar, Marston flung himself at Edouard. Edouard pleaded and shrieked and babbled. Marston’s hands closed around his throat, turning his protests to gurgles. China crashed into fragments against the parquet floor. Amy ran and hugged Jane. The footmen wisely sneaked out the door while no one was looking. Miss Gwen whacked the back of Marston’s head with her soupspoon, calling him an insolent son of a rabid dog.

And the butler cleared his throat.

“Ahem!” He had to try several times before the room stilled, raising his voice to a level that would have rendered a man of lesser vocal capacities mute for a month. Miss Gwen paused with her spoon raised above Marston’s head. Marston stopped with his fingers digging into Edouard’s vocal cords. And Edouard stayed just as he was, his tongue hanging slightly out, pop-eyed with terror.

The butler proffered a card on a silver tray to Edouard. Miss Gwen snatched it on his behalf.

“Lord and Lady Uppington would like to pay their respects,” the butler intoned, his gaze fixed somewhere above the bizarre tableau created by his master, Marston, and Miss Gwen.

“Put them in the green salon,” instructed Miss Gwen, since Edouard seemed incapable of speech. To be fair to Edouard, Marston’s hands were still locked about his throat, so his incapacity might have been due to dearth of air rather than lack of wit. “And you!” She dealt Marston another smart whack with her now-rather-dented silver soupspoon. “Stop throttling Mr. Balcourt and take your leave at once! Shoo!”

Marston shooed. With an eloquent sneer at Jane and Amy, who stood with their arms about each other’s waists for support, he sauntered out the door after the butler.

“One can only hope he will not encounter the Uppingtons,” declared Miss Gwen, dropping her soupspoon into her bowl with a clatter.

Uppington. The name sounded familiar, but Amy was too busy making sure Marston’s retreating back kept retreating to give it any thought. “When did you find out about the smuggling?” she whispered to Jane.

“Last night,” Jane whispered back. “I was going to tell you this morning, but . . . Why are we whispering?”