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T he low drone of conversation creeping through White’s put Edward Pryce, Earl of Marsdale, on instant alert when he arrived at the social club around noon. A need to get out of the house – to surround himself with people and let himself be distracted – had led him here. If he were lucky, he’d happen upon someone whose company he enjoyed, though he doubted Adrian would be present now that he’d married.

Several men glanced his way as he entered the salon where he planned on eating his luncheon, silence sweeping the room like a wave as one by one they noted his presence. He met all their gazes, greeting them with a small nod while doing his best to ignore the leap of his pulse and the icy sensation now filling his chest.

Something had happened. Something connected to him in some way. The question was what.

Spotting the Duke of Eldridge, who stood in conversation with Mr. Hillford and the Marquess of Avernail, Edward started toward them, hoping to gain some insight. Before he could reach them however, Hillford, who spotted him first, excused himself from the group and came to greet him. The gentleman, whose calm and jovial manner made him more likeable than most, was always good company. Avernail tracked his movements, turning slightly until his gaze collided with Edward’s.

The grim set to the marquess’s mouth accompanied by the venomous look in his hardened eyes stopped Edward’s progress.

“You’re a brave man to try approaching that corner,” Hillford said when he reached him. “Might be wise to keep your distance from Avernail for a while since it’s no secret whose side you’ll probably take in all this.”

Edward had never been more confused. “What are you talking about?”

A stunned moment of silence, and then, “You’ve no idea what’s happened, do you?” When Edward only stared at him blankly, Hillford grabbed him by the arm and steered him toward a table as far from Avernail as possible.

They sat, Hillford claiming the seat adjacent to Edward’s before leaning in. “Benjamin Lawrence was killed last night.”

“What?” That icy sensation from earlier found a home at the nape of his neck. He stared at Hillford, incredulous.

“Croft was found at the scene. He’s been arrested and will likely be charged with the murder.”

Edward’s world tilted. The chatter around him receded into the background. His heart thudded, one thunderous beat after another. He swallowed, became aware of a deep gnawing ache expanding within his chest until he realized it was his lungs, straining for air.

He sucked in a breath, released it slowly while trying to comprehend the words Hillford had spoken. They were clear and yet he could not believe it was true. Adrian would never take a man’s life – a marquess’s son’s no less – without a bloody good reason. A reason that truly escaped him right now considering what he knew about Benjamin Lawrence.

“What happened?” The words were shredded, torn from him on an uneven gasp.

“I don’t know much beyond what I’ve told you. The situation does not look good for Croft though. Avernail wants to see justice served and I for one cannot blame him. I mean, his son was crippled and… I realize Croft is your friend, but he’s gone too far this time, Marsdale. Surely you can see that.”

“I need to speak with him first,” Edward said. “I refuse to judge him before I’ve done so.”

The look Hillford gave him was awful – full of pity. “He killed a defenseless man.”

“Croft would never act without just cause. If he did indeed kill Benjamin Lawrence, there must have been one.”

A server approached and Edward ordered a soup – a quick meal to tide him over until he had time for more substantial fare. He’d come here for the duck breast but was now keen on getting to Bow Street as fast as possible. Whatever had happened, he wanted to hear Adrian’s version of events.

“I’m guessing you learned about all of this from Avernail?” Edward asked. The incident hadn’t been mentioned in the papers, which meant the story had not emerged until after they’d gone to print.

“From Benjamin Lawrence’s brother, Nigel, actually. He was at Gentleman Jackson’s this morning, happy to fight any man who was willing. And equally happy to pray for a rope to find its way around Croft’s neck.”

So the man who’d been praising Adrian’s effort in taking down Clive Newton earlier in the summer had turned on him now. Made sense, Edward supposed, since Benjamin was Nigel’s brother.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Edward said. “I appreciate it.”

The soup arrived and Hillford excused himself, allowing Edward to eat in peace. A few mouthfuls was all he managed, however, before setting his spoon aside. His appetite wasn’t what it had been when he’d arrived. He doubted it would return until after he’d gotten a better sense of the facts.

Eager to be on his way he pushed back his chair and stood. The gazes trailing his every step as he left the club were like silent jabs, pushing him out the door.

He barely registered issuing orders to his carriage driver, his thoughts so preoccupied by the news he’d received that everything else became an instinctive series of actions. The view beyond the carriage window filled his vision as he travelled through the London streets, and yet he saw nothing. Indeed, he started when his coachman knocked on the door to inform him they’d reached their destination. He wondered how long he’d sat there without alighting, so deep in thought the rest of the world had receded.

Gathering himself, he shook off the worries that plagued him and stepped down onto the pavement. He took a brief moment to thank his coachman and square his shoulders before proceeding toward the door leading into the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court.

A young Runner with dusty blonde hair and lean features tipped his head in greeting when Edward entered and stepped toward him. “Good afternoon. May I be of some assistance?”

“Hopefully so.” Edward retrieved his calling card and handed it to him. “It’s my understanding that Mr. Croft is being held here. I should like to speak with him if possible.”

The Runner seemed to mull that over for a second while making a note of the prominent title displayed on the crisp white card. “This is a matter for my superior. If you would please wait a moment, I’ll let Chief Constable Kendrick know you are here.”

Thankfully, Edward did not have to wait long for the man in question to arrive. He was at least ten years Edward’s senior, with dark blonde hair greased with pomade and combed to one side. Standing at roughly the same height, though his build was on the narrower side, Kendrick’s piercing blue eyes were marred by exhaustion.

“Lord Marsdale,” said Kendrick, extending his hand in greeting. The handshake that followed was firm and brief. “I understand you wish to see Mr. Croft.”

“Indeed. He’s a friend of mine.” Edward made a point of holding Kendrick’s gaze. “I’d like to make sure he’s all right.”

“Are you aware of the charges he’s facing?” Kendrick stepped aside to let a couple of Runners past. Edward did the same, his shoulder brushing the wall beside him.

“To some degree,” Edward said. “I’d like to hear his account of what happened.”

“You’re a good friend.” Kendrick seemed to consider something. Sensing he might be deciding which way to lean, Edward held his breath and prayed he would not have to use his rank as pressure – a tactic he loathed resorting to for any reason. “I’ll grant you a meeting, provided you’re willing to accept that I shall have to be there as well. Just in case Croft says something I don’t already know.”

Edward bristled even as he relaxed “Are we not entitled to privacy?”

“You’re not his solicitor, so no, I do not have to provide such a privilege. And given the nature of the crime he’s accused of, every word he utters could be of vital importance.”

“Against him,” Edward said, his voice harder than he’d intended.

“Not necessarily.” Kendrick raised his chin. “Do not presume to know my position in all of this.” He extended his arm – an indication that they should proceed toward a green door at the back of the room. “Shall we?”

The chief constable led him to a small, sparsely furnished office in which he asked Edward to wait. The room contained only a basic table and two chairs. A window, barred on the outside, provided light, along with a view of the red brick forming the corner of a nearby building. Edward considered the wood plank flooring, scratched and worn from rough use.

A click drew his attention back to the door as it opened, admitting Kendrick, who brought Adrian with him. Edward stepped forward, only to pause at the sight of his friend. Whatever he’d thought to find here, it wasn’t this lackluster individual who looked so defeated. As if all strength had been drained from him since his arrest.

Swallowing, Edward forced himself to conceal his surprise to the best of his ability and to offer what he hoped to be a supportive smile instead. “You look like you’re in need of a decent bed.”

A ghost of a smile touched Adrian’s lips, but at least a spark of humor appeared in his eyes. “I gather you’re here to check up on me?”

“That’s what friends do, is it not?”

Adrian nodded and glanced toward the table and chairs.

“Go on,” said Kendrick. “You two sit. I’ll hang back here by the door.”

When Adrian didn’t move right away, Edward took the chance to close the distance and pull him into a hug. “We’ll get you out of here. You’ll see.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Adrian muttered, his voice as hollow as a death knell.

Kendrick cleared his throat and Edward patted his friend on the back before stepping away. They found their seats, the hard wood no doubt intended to keep conversations brief.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Edward asked.

Adrian glanced toward Kendrick. A weary sigh followed. And then, “I killed Benjamin Lawrence last night.”

Edward sucked in a breath. In all their years of friendship – a lifetime, almost – Adrian had never before been so forthright. The confession was not an easy one for Edward to hear or to accept, though he told himself his friend would not have taken a life unless he’d had no other choice.

“My lovely wife,” Adrian added, “made sure the chief constable here arrived just in time to discover me with the pistol still in my hand.”

The bitterness with which Adrian spoke was undeniable. And understandable, if Samantha had indeed caused his arrest. A mistake on her part, Edward assumed. Of greater interest to him was Adrian’s motive. “What would prompt you to do such a thing?”

A stifled bit of humorless laughter. “My reasoning is rather hard to believe. It defies common sense and lacks the evidence I would need for acquittal. Not that acquittal would be an option, regardless, but whatever slim chance there was has been wrecked by the circumstances.”

Irritation on Adrian’s behalf and at seeing him brought so low stiffened Edward’s spine. “However implausible your position may be, I can’t take your side unless you make the effort to explain it to me.”

Another scoff accompanied by a weary look. “You’re showing more sternness than usual.”

“Only because you’re testing my patience with your lack of resolve. Where’s the iron will and the power behind your name? It’s been what, fifteen or sixteen hours since your arrest, yet you’ve already let the constables turn you into a shadow of the man I know you to be. Has Shaw come to see you?”

Something hard flickered in Adrian’s gaze. Good. “He stopped by earlier.”

“And? What’s his take on the situation?”

“He claims he might have an angle but that there’s a chance it won’t work.”

Edward nodded. “That still means there’s hope.”

“Slim at best, considering the forces standing against me. Every effort will be put toward seeing me hang. Of that, there’s no doubt.”

Unwilling to even consider the chance of that occurring, Edward leaned forward and folded his arms on the table, his gaze fixed on Adrian’s. “Take me through the events step by step.”

Adrian said nothing for a long moment. Only silence filled the room, along with the distant sound of traffic moving by outside in the street, a door being shut in the hallway beyond, and Edward’s own breathing.

But then…

“As it turns out, Benjamin Lawrence was not the crippled man he pretended to be.”

Edward stared at him. “Are you saying he faked his injuries?”

“Exactly so.” Adrian’s mouth was set in a grim line. Shadows darkened his eyes. “A carefully thought-out plan intended to help him get away with murdering Lady Eleanor.”

“But that’s…”

“Diabolical?” His expression hardened slightly – an indication of anger simmering right beneath the surface. “I managed to lure him with the aid of his mistress. Miss Fontaine, a lovely young actress, agreed to help me ensure Lawrence met the justice he deserved as soon as she learned of his monstrous actions. I encouraged her to get involved, only to watch Lawrence shoot her in the head. Didn’t even pause to think about it. He just…”

Edward’s stomach turned over. He couldn’t imagine what that must have been like. Or the guilt he knew Adrian would carry with him forever.

He drew a breath, tried to steady the rapid beats of his heart. “That’s when you killed him?”

“He thought he’d have time to shoot me next.”

“The pistol was double barreled?”

Adrian nodded. “Wasn’t faster than my blade, though.”

Edward raised his brows, his head tilting as he glanced toward Kendrick, then directed a pointed look at his friend.

“It’s all right,” Adrian told him. “Kendrick already knows all the details. I held nothing back.”

A bit surprising. Edward would not have expected Adrian to be so cooperative with the authorities. Surely he knew every word he uttered could be used against him. A problem Edward would think on later.

For now…

“So you stabbed him?”

“No, the distance between us was too great for that. I threw the blade. It struck him in the chest. Made him collapse to the floor. So I crossed to where he lay. Took the pistol he’d used from his hands. And shot him with it.”

“Good God.”

That Adrian would confess to this so openly in front of the chief constable was unsettling. Edward might not have studied the law, but he knew this confession would make it near impossible for his solicitor to argue his case. Shaw would have to prove that Adrian’s life had been in peril, and even then, acquittal was highly unlikely under these circumstances.

“I didn’t have time to rid myself of the weapon before Samantha arrived with Kendrick right on her heels.” Again, that bitterness, tinged by something more cutting as he spoke his wife’s name.

“And Mrs. Croft,” Edward asked. “Where is she now?”

“The devil only knows,” Adrian muttered.

Edward’s mind raced. For all intents and purposes, his friend had killed a man only he had seen standing upright. It would be his word against the masses. An accusation so absurd the judge would find him guilty without even having to think. And his wife, the one person he should have been able to lean on, was gone.

No wonder Adrian chose to approach all of this with bleakness.

Yet he did not know where Samantha was. Had no idea. Even though she’d been there. She’d shown up right before Kendrick. It didn’t make any sense.

“Why was she not asked to make a statement?” Edward turned to Kendrick. “If Mrs. Croft arrived on the scene right before you, she might have seen something else – something important. I don’t understand why you let her leave.”

A heartless chuckle fell from Adrian’s lips when discomfort showed upon Kendrick’s face. “He didn’t let her leave, Edward. Samantha ran. Fled through a window and disappeared into the night.”

“I had to make a choice,” Kendrick said, his voice tight. “I couldn’t apprehend both.”

Edward stared at him in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why would you want to apprehend her? From what I’ve gathered so far, she had nothing to do with Lawrence’s death.”

“True,” Kendrick said. “But the charges against her are no less severe.”

“Treason,” Adrian supplied. “For betraying the oath she made to serve her king and country. Even though she did precisely as the good constable here demanded, ensuring his case against me was solid. But I suppose she knows too much and needs to be gotten rid of as well. Isn’t that right, Kendrick?”

The chief constable crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I’m not discussing my dealings with your wife, Croft.”

Shock speared Edward. What the hell was going on?

“At least you don’t deny that she was your agent,” Adrian muttered. “Or that you sent her to destroy me.”

“That can’t be true.” Edward had seen Samantha with Adrian numerous times. Her affection for him was clear. “I refuse to believe it.”

“As did I,” Adrian told him darkly. “And look where that got me.”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation.

“Mr. Nigel Lawrence is here.” The message was conveyed by the same Runner who’d gone to fetch Kendrick when Edward arrived. “He’d like a word with Croft, if possible.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there.” The door closed and Kendrick turned to Adrian. “You’re a popular man today. Will you meet with Lawrence, or should I send your regrets?”

“Anything to help pass the time,” Adrian told him. To Edward he said, “I know this pains you and that you will likely feel helpless before this is over, but if it’s any consolation, know that I have accepted my lot. I don’t regret what I’ve done. Indeed, I would do it again if given the chance. And just in case I don’t get to speak with you later, know that your friendship has meant the world to me, Edward. It always has.”

“I will get you out of this,” Edward swore as he reached for Adrian’s hand and clasped it across the table. He wasn’t sure how he’d accomplish it, but by God, he’d manage. One way or the other. “This isn’t the end, so don’t you dare treat it as if it is. Do you hear?”

“Loud and clear, brother.”

Jaw tight, throat aching, and eyes burning so hot they stung, Edward gave him a stiff nod and left. When he passed Nigel Lawrence on the way out, he sent him a nod in greeting, but chose not to pause for a chat since there was no doubt they stood in opposite corners as far as Adrian’s case was concerned.

Finding his coachman, Edward told him to head home without him. Right now, the only thing he wanted to do was walk.

There was so much to process. Too much, in fact. He didn’t yet understand how Samantha was tied up in all of this, the extent of her supposed involvement or if it was even real. Adrian had made the accusation. Kendrick had not refuted it. But Edward failed to believe her capable of such deceit.

He strode onward, feet moving at a clipped pace. According to Adrian’s own account, Samantha had put herself between him and Clive Newton’s pistol. She’d saved his life. Risked her own in the process. If she’d actually wanted to take him down, then why not simply allow Clive Newton to shoot him? A simple solution if she were indeed working against him.

It was clear to Edward that Adrian wasn’t considering this. In fact, he wasn’t thinking clearly at all, as evidenced by his foolish confession. Extricating him from this mess would prove a challenge. He’d no clue where to start.

The only thing he could think to do was to try appealing to those who owed Croft a favor. Such individuals had to exist if the stories he’d heard about him over the years were true. But how was he to find these people? He’d no information to go on.

A shout caught his attention. The warning prevented him from stepping into the next street and getting trampled by an oncoming carriage. Several passersby stared at him. Had he really been so distracted he’d paid no attention to where he was going?

He stopped to glance around and realized he didn’t know where he was, only that the light was beginning to dim and that his surroundings were dominated by all manner of businesses. Christ, how long had he been walking?

“Excuse me,” he said, addressing a man who was helping unload crates from a wagon. “Can you tell me where I am, please?”

“Lost are ye?” The man offered a grin, though not an unkind one. “This ’ere’s Cable Street. Tower Hill is back that way.” He directed a thumb over his shoulder. “If ye turn that there corner ye’ll be at the docks. Does that help ye out?”

“It certainly does. Thank you.” Edward glanced up and down the street, hoping to spot a hackney for hire so he would be spared the three and a half mile walk back to Mayfair.

Finding none, he decided to stop for a rest at the inn he spied a bit farther along. A drink would be welcome, as would a hearty meal. He’d not eaten anything since the soup and that was several hours ago by now.

Thankfully, the establishment turned out to be a welcoming place with a cheerful barkeep who promptly poured a large mug of ale for Edward to enjoy while he waited for his food to arrive. The pork he’d ordered was crisp, carved straight from the spit and served with mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, and gravy.

Though the barkeep encouraged Edward to sit at the bar so they could chat while he ate, he excused himself politely and moved to a table that stood near the wall. Socializing and all it entailed – the laughing and smiling – while his friend was locked up at Bow Street didn’t feel right.

Even the food, so delicious he made a mental note to return here one day, filled him with guilt. He’d have to see about sending something for Adrian to enjoy, so he’d not have to live off the bland fare he was most likely being served.

The final bite – a piece of pork used to soak up the last of the gravy – slid down his throat. He chased it with the remaining ale and paid the barkeep, then took his leave. With no hackneys nearby, he set out in the direction of Mayfair, his feet a little less sore than before, though it didn’t take long for them to start aching again.

Traffic started increasing around Lombard Street, which thankfully allowed Edward to flag down an empty hackney. He reached his home at Number 2 Berkley Square some thirty minutes later, where he was greeted by Bertram, his butler.

“Everything all right, my lord?” Concern etched the servant’s brow as he took Edward’s hat.

Well into his sixties, he’d been hired by Edward’s father, had worked his way up the ranks from footman, to valet, to his current position. Edward had known him all his life and appreciated knowing that the old man cared about his well-being.

“Far from it,” he admitted, a sudden need to release the fear pressing firmly upon his chest. News of what had occurred would fill the front page of every paper tomorrow morning, so there was no reason for him not to share it. He tugged off one glove. “The Marquess of Avernail’s son, Benjamin Lawrence, has been killed. Croft has been charged with the deed.”

“Ah.” The exclamation was uncharacteristic of Bertram and underscored just how shocking the situation was. “Would you like me to pour you a brandy?”

Edward dropped his gloves into the hat Bertram held. He gave an appreciative smile. “Thank you, but I think I can manage.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

Nothing came to mind. “I’m just going to have a drink before I retire. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Bertram inclined his head. “Good night, my lord.”

Edward wished him the same before striding toward his study, his footfalls muted by the Persian runner lining the hallway. He opened the door and stepped inside, instantly soothed by the welcoming warmth from the fire and the glow from the oil lamp that sat on his desk.

He took a step forward, his hand still on the door handle, and froze in response to the presence he sensed. No need to turn to know somebody lurked in the shadows behind the door. His gaze shot toward the paper knife on his desk, the nearest weapon within reach, even as he considered alerting the servants.

One shout and they would come running.

His pulse raced, sending frissons of energy through every limb.

“Calm yourself, Marsdale.” An almost inaudible whisper. “I just want to talk.”

The familiar voice was both a relief and cause for alarm. It did not help him relax, but it did assure him that it was unlikely he would be harmed.

He pushed the door shut behind him and turned. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mrs. Croft?”