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‘I need you to do me a favour.’ She refused to sit in the rather dusty parlour Edward never used.

She stood with her spine ramrod straight next to his leather couch, rubbing her index finger against her thumb in a clear sign of agitation only her closest confidantes would recognise.

Sunlight illuminated her morning gown of wine red so dark it was almost black.

Her lips had been stained a colour to match.

Shocking when the Queen dictated a natural face to be the comeliest option.

But Philippa defied even Queen Victoria.

She was stunning with her raven-black hair twisted into an intricate mass of curls and braids, the strands of silver only highlighting her beauty.

Her sharp eyes, bluer than a fathomless sea, could cut through any man sharper than a blade.

High cheekbones, skin that seemed to defy the years Edward knew were matching his own at nine and thirty, and a figure many young misses would cinch themselves breathless to achieve all combined to create more than just a woman.

Philippa was a force of nature. It was no wonder she had captured his heart so long ago, when they were still children.

But she had never been enamoured of him. A fact his youthful pride couldn’t accept. And so, the brash fool that he’d been made an irreversible mistake. One causing them both immeasurable harm.

Don’t think of it. Not here. Not now.

His feelings for Philippa no longer smouldered with the passion of romantic love. Those flames died long ago and, in their place, grew respect of the highest order and an unpayable debt. So how could he possibly refuse her favour? Even one that ran so counter to his own desires.

‘It came to my attention at the masque that Ivy has developed a friendship with someone I don’t trust.’

Even now, months later, Edward remembered his reaction to Philippa’s announcement. Alarm threaded through his nervous system with a healthy dose of denial. ‘What on earth does Lady Ivy Cavendale’s friendships have to do with me? I neither know the woman nor care to know her.’

Balderdash!

Even after only one meeting, it was impossible to deny his interest in the mysterious woman.

Philippa strode closer to him, close enough for him to note the fine lines fanning from her cobalt eyes. ‘She is an innocent who has suffered much. More than you could possibly guess.’ Which only increased Edward’s growing curiosity. Something he was positive Philippa intended.

Damn her ability to play me so easily. Just as she did when we were children.

‘Protect her, Edward. You owe me this after failing to protect—’ But Philippa couldn’t say her name.

And Edward understood. It was a blade between them, cutting away their shields and exposing raw wounds neither wished to admit.

Philippa continued as if she’d never stumbled.

‘I don’t trust Lady Olivia Smithwick. Her newly developed friendship with Ivy is highly suspicious.

What could a woman like that want with someone as socially irrelevant as Ivy? ’

‘I doubt Lady Cavendale would appreciate your assessment of her.’

‘I am not assessing Ivy’s worth. It is immeasurable.

I am simply stating her position in the beau monde.

A station based neither on her merit, intelligence, or abilities.

Society is a poor judge of character. Which is my point, if you would only pay attention.

Lady Olivia Smithwick has captured the beau monde’s regard and is basking in that power.

So why would she waste her time considering Ivy as a viable friend? Her motives are corrupt.’

Shrugging, Edward refused to lend credence to Philippa’s claims. ‘Perhaps she appreciates the same qualities in Lady Cavendale which drew you to her.’

She snorted, a decidedly unduchesslike sound that reminded Edward painfully of the Philippa he knew from his youth.

‘Doubtful. Ivy thinks Lady Smithwick is just a harmless, wealthy member of the beau monde, devoted to charitable causes. But she’s wrong.

I’ve been around enough liars to recognise the shape and scent of one, even across a crowded ballroom.

Lady Olivia Smithwick is deceiving the beau monde, her husband, and Ivy. But she isn’t fooling me.’

Edward had noted Philippa’s reaction to Lady Olivia Smithwick at Lord Renquist’s ball.

While Edward had limited dealings with Lady Olivia’s husband, the Marquess of Brightmore, he was a respected member of the House of Lords.

Lady Olivia had only newly returned from the Continent, where it was rumoured her husband banished her at least ten years prior for cuckolding him.

Unfaithfulness might earn a woman like Olivia Smithwick a certain tarnished notoriety, but she hardly posed a threat to Lady Ivy Cavendale’s already ruined reputation.

Still, Edward long ago learned the imprudence of doubting Philippa Winterbourne.

If Lady Olivia Smithwick had caught Philippa’s interest, it did not bode well for the newly reinstated marchioness.

More often than not, members of the peerage who gained Philippa’s notice met an early, unfortunate, and well-deserved end.

Which made Lady Olivia’s friendship with Lady Ivy Cavendale most concerning.

And a confounding puzzle. The two women couldn’t be more opposite.

Lady Ivy Cavendale dissolved into a crowd like mist while Lady Olivia Smithwick drew people’s eyes as surely as a sparkling firework in the midnight sky.

And yet, it was quiet, pale, private Lady Ivy Cavendale who plucked at Edward’s curiosity like a violin string sending vibrations through his bones.

And this was the exact reason he should stay away from the woman.

‘What can I possibly do? Wade into the murky waters of female friendships and make Lady Ivy’s connection with Lady Olivia a crime?

’ Edward tried to keep his voice calm. Steady.

Free of any inflection. After only meeting Lady Ivy once, he already found his thoughts diverted.

And he could afford no distractions in their mission.

‘Don’t be an idiot. I need you to keep an eye on Ivy. Make sure she is safe. You have hundreds of men at your disposal. Surely you can spare a few.’

Damnation!

The one woman he meant to avoid at all costs was the exact woman Philippa was asking him to watch closely.

‘Are you trying to punish me? Is that what this is?’

‘Trust me, Edward. If punishment were my aim, you’d already be bleeding from multiple wounds.’

Lady Ivy Cavendale carried secrets with her. Of that, he was certain. Mysteries he had neither time nor reason to explore. But Edward could never resist such enigmas. He was compelled to seek out hidden truths, even if those revelations caused immeasurable harm.

Even if they end in an innocent’s death.

Perhaps that was why Philippa lowered herself to such depths.

Requiring help from Edward only because she knew it was the last thing he wished to do.

The Duchess of Dorsett hated him with acidity potent enough to burn the skin from his bones – an enmity Edward certainly deserved – but she wasn’t cruel. Generally.

No. It is as difficult for her to ask me a favour as it is for me to grant her one.

She had stood in his dusty parlour all those months ago, her lips pressed tight together, her eyes flashing with fire and something even more terrifying.

Fear. An emotion rarely seen in the duchess.

Which was enough for Edward to place a rotation of his most trusted men on alert, noting the comings and goings of Lady Ivy Cavendale.

And after three months of listening to their reports, he still knew infuriatingly little about the reclusive woman.

She mostly kept to her aunt’s house, only venturing out to visit Philippa weekly or take tea with her closest friends, Lady Millicent Drake, Lady Hannah Killian, and the newly married Lady Penny Renquist. She did not promenade in Hyde Park.

She did not visit the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall.

She was not invited to the balls held at Almacks.

She didn’t even venture out to Harrods on Borough High Street to window-shop.

Which made Reading’s announcement earlier that morning of Ivy moving into the All Souls Orphanage highly unusual but not nearly as alarming as his newest report of an intruder.

Narrowing his gaze on his secretary, Edward forced any weakness from his voice. ‘Has she been harmed?’

‘Quite the contrary. She shot him.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Edward stood from his desk, strode to the hook holding his greatcoat, swept it over his shoulders, and nearly knocked Reading over as he strode past. He walked into the summer night with one purpose: finding Lady Ivy Cavendale.

* * *

Ivy was desperate for a cup of tea. Laced with a strong dram of whiskey.

She blamed Philippa. Before meeting the duchess, she’d never imbibed anything stronger than ratafia – and then only a sip at a ball to cool her parched throat.

But now, Ivy had developed quite a taste for the harsh burn and corresponding warmth of smoky spirits.

It would be just the thing to chase away the deathly chill shaking her hands.

Hands shackled together with heavy, metal manacles.