Page 6 of Captured by the Earl (The Secret Crusaders #2)

CHAPTER 6

L ondon Society News:

Not one, but two stories have captivated the ton . First, Lord Peyton and his (soon-to-be-officially) betrothed have finally reunited, amidst what could only be described as unusual behavior. No, it is not official yet, likely due to the absence of the bride’s father. Yet the earl was seen arriving at a very obscene hour to break the fast. If only the walls could share what was conversed.

Of course, the mysterious rescuer is London’s other obsession. Now that we know he was one of the ton, rumors abound as to his identity.

Does anyone know the truth?

The first visit did not go quite as Emma hoped.

“How is your rash?”

Peyton’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Excuse me?”

“Your rash.” Lady Drummond speared Peyton with a shrewd expression. “You know, the rash on your?—”

“He’s fine,” Emma swiftly interjected. “Much better indeed.”

Peyton cast her a suspicious gaze, and Emma sunk further into the plush sofa. Thankfully, darkness permeated Lady Drummond’s drawing room, which was decorated in shades of brown, black, and grey, with the windows shut tight and heavily curtained. The candlelit space smelled of potions and medicinal remedies, from jars upon jars of various concoctions, compounded by the heavily raging fire in the black fireplace. Paintings of ships on storm-lashed seas populated sparse walls, similar to the tempests brewing in Peyton’s eyes.

“I am certain you do not want to hear my personal afflictions,” he said stiffly.

“On the contrary, I am most eager to be of service,” Lady Drummond returned. The dragon was eighty if she was a day, fiercely intelligent, sharp-tongued and painfully abrupt. Yet beneath the bristly exterior was a kind and compassionate soul, evidenced by the numerous donations she quietly gave to social causes. “I raised half a dozen children, all of whom made it to adulthood,” she said proudly. “Lady Emma was all too happy to share all the details of your problem during your sojourn.”

“Was she now?” He turned his gaze back to her. “How… splendid.”

Emma pressed her lips together. “I thought she could be of service.”

“Be of service?” Peyton stared at her. “With my rash? Where is this ra–”

“It is a rather serious problem,” Emma broke in once more. “I thought you could use all the help you could get.”

Like the whole betrothed-for-months-without-telling-him incident, it really wasn’t her fault Lady Drummond thought he had a rash. She’d been trying to get through to the dowager forever. Of course, the lady could not vote herself. However, she had a large extended family, and knew many of the other dragons in the ton. She was feared and held some influence, thus it was a worthwhile cause to make her supportive of their causes. Unfortunately, it was difficult to find something to which Lady Drummond could relate.

When the dowager mentioned she had been afflicted with a rash, Emma had, without fully thinking of the consequences, proclaimed Peyton also suffered from such an affliction. Then, when Lady Drummond asked where said rash was located, she’d had to quickly think of a place where no one could see.

Unfortunately that place was his arse.

Even worse, instead of making the woman more amenable to listening to her views on social justice, it delved into a rather lengthy discussion on rashes.

On arses.

Which apparently, was on the precipice of continuing.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, young man. It’s really quite common. If you want, I could take a look…”

“That won’t be necessary.” Peyton straightened his coat. “Let me assure you all has been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“Are you certain?”

“Of course. I looked on the street just before I came here.”

Emma choked on her tea. Priscilla placed a hand over her mouth. Lady Drummond looked… amused?

Peyton’s eyes blazed.

She was in trouble.

Yet fate gifted a reprieve. The door opened, and a lovely young woman with shining long locks and alabaster skin entered. Peyton and the ladies rose as the newcomer glided to Lady Drummond, her pale pink day dress presenting a stark contrast to the widow’s voluminous dark presence. Yet matching blue eyes held equal warmth, as the ladies gazed at each other with unmistakable love.

“Peyton, may I introduce my granddaughter, Clara? Unfortunately, my grandson, the new Duke of Foxworth, was called back to Scotland. He will be returning soon.” For just an instant, her eyes sparkled. “Said he has to retrieve something that belongs to him.” She chuckled lowly, before sobering. “Of course, you three know each other from your guild.”

Peyton looked between them. “Ah yes, The Distinguished Ladies of Purpose.”

Priscilla nodded quickly. “We love to sew.”

“Just love it.” Emma grinned far too widely. She sobered quickly, an overcorrection, as a slightly perplexed look arrested Peyton.

“It appears you cannot decide whether you love it or hate it.” He clasped his hands together. “I don’t believe you’ve shown me your work.”

“I will definitely remedy that the next time you visit.” Which would hopefully be never. Now she had to get through the visit without any more embarrassing stories or illuminating secrets. She knew just the thing. “Tell me, Lady Drummond, how are your grandchildren?”

Lady Drummond’s eyes lit up. “Two more have recently been born, which brings the total to twenty-three. They have been quite active…”

Emma usually enjoyed Lady’s Drummond’s witty repartee, yet the outsized presence of the man next to her usurped her focus. With every shift of his muscles, he came a little closer. A thousand and one times, she forced herself to stay still, not moving away or toward him.

The rest of the visit passed as agreeably as possible, which was to say they did not discuss rashes or arses or rashes upon arses. Most importantly, they did not discuss social action. The time went swiftly, and she was feeling a little better as they stepped into the bright sunshine.

The fashionable hour to see and be seen was upon them, with numerous pedestrians milling about the walkways. Well- appointed carriages rolled by, their riders dressed in smart and elegant outfits, as they posed and preened. A gentle breeze brought the scent of numerous perfumes, amidst tinkling laughter and light conversation.

Emma breathed slowly. Somehow she had managed to emerge unscathed.

“You told her I had a rash?”

Perhaps not.

Wisely, Priscilla stepped ahead.

“I may have mentioned something to that effect.”

“And where exactly was said rash located?”

She remained silent. If enough time passed, eventually he would forget the question and move on to something else.

“Are you pretending you cannot hear me?”

“Quite.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “You won’t escape so easily, Emma. Where was this supposed rash located?”

She murmured the answer.

“I did not hear you.”

She mumbled it again, slightly louder, no more intelligible.

“Louder.”

“Fine, if you must know, the rash is located on your…” Heat crept up her neck.

“Yes?” he prodded.

“It’s located on your… well… back there.”

He glanced behind him. “On my back?”

“Not exactly.”

“On my waist?”

“A little lower.”

He stopped. “You didn’t.”

“I might have.”

“You did.”

“Indeed.”

He looked straight ahead, his expression tight. For a moment they simply walked in silence. Had she broken him? “Please tell me you can utter a coherent word before me.”

“Oh, I can utter a coherent word.” He slid her a sideways glance. “But I’m trying to remind myself that gentlemen do not kidnap ladies off the street so they can think about what they’ve done.”

Her eyes widened.

He exhaled. “Are you going to attempt an explanation?”

Had he just threatened to kidnap her? Again? “Would you believe alligators had something to do with it?”

He gave her a dark look.

“Then unfortunately, I do not have an explanation.”

His expression sobered, his gaze turning assessing. “I seriously doubt that, Lady Emma. You have a reason for these things you do, one that will soon become clear. I will discover the truth.”

She inhaled sharply, forcing her gaze to the people ahead of her. She had been fooling herself. He didn’t simply notice the world around him, but analyzed, didn’t just hear but listened. Every inconsistency would be measured, every slip a clue that could lead to exposure.

He may indeed discover the truth.

Unfortunately, the second visit progressed even worse.

“She shared all your suggestions about the votes.” Baron Dryfus puffed out his chest, patting a cravat so intricately tied one risked becoming cross-eyed simply by viewing it. His bored expression portrayed false importance that was quite ill-mannered in the presence of an earl and two ladies.

“Did she now?” Peyton slid a look to Emma.

She made a concerted effort to blend in with the settee. The results were disappointing.

Yet it would have been nigh impossible to match the radiantly decorated room. The baron believed no color too bright, in a drawing room decorated in deep pinks, purples and greens. Colorful paintings matched equally bright rugs, under a chandelier with orange tinted crystals. The furniture, although traditionally shaped, came in many hues, and included random designs painted, embroidered and otherwise embellished upon the expensive fabrics.

“Of course I already knew the right measures to support.” The baron drew her attention back with his lofty statement. “I have an extraordinary grasp of such matters.”

Emma looked upward. Although impossibly arrogant, at least Dryfus agreed with her suggestions, as long as he believed they came from Peyton.

“What exactly did you discuss?” Leaning on his clasped hands, Peyton portrayed casual interest, yet a gleam in his eyes belied the apathetic air. This was bad. If he learned every conversation revolved around social causes, he might decipher the truth of her subterfuge. He could learn more, such as the existence of the Distinguished Ladies of Purpose.

Exposure threatened everything.

She clapped her hands together. “I have something to say.”

Peyton sat back, his expression brimming with intelligence. “Yes, Lady Emma?”

She swallowed. “I… I…” She glanced around the room, searching for something, anything, to provide distraction. There! She pointed to a discombobulated mishmash of colors and shapes splattered on a canvas. “That painting is absolutely fabulous. I’ve noticed it every visit, and could spend hours staring at it. You must tell me where you got it, Lord Dryfus, so I can secure one for my home.”

Everyone turned to the large artwork. Emma peered closer, frowned. Upon further study, perhaps it wasn’t a meaningless subject after all. Shapes started to form into people, colors into body parts. She gasped.

It showed a man…

And a woman…

And another man.

And another woman.

And about a dozen of each more, for good measure, without the little indulgence of clothing.

And who knew people could bend like that?

Peyton’s eye twitched.

Approximately a year of stunned silence passed before Dryfus cleared his throat. “I’m… er… glad you like it. Ladies do not usually comment on it.”

“I don’t see why not.” She cringed. Blending in with the settee was still not working.

“It is a most extraordinary painting.” Peyton leaned forward. “Tell me, what do you like most about it?”

Emma choked. “It’s just so… moving.”

Definitely the wrong word.

“It really strikes you deep down.”

Far worse.

“Deep, deep down. Really at your core.”

Her mind had clearly booked a trip to America without her.

Dryfus made some sort of strangling noise. Priscilla now looked like she was trying to blend in with the settee. And Peyton?

He looked like he wanted to devour her.

Like a savior, Priscilla jumped in, “Lord Dryfus, I’ve never seen a cravat tied like that. Please tell me about it.”

Lord Dryfus bowed in relief. “Why, of course, my lady. I first noticed cravats when I was a young lad, and I was riveted. My twenty favorite styles, in alphabetical order…”

Emma had never been so elated to hear the extensive details of cravats. Yet was she truly saved, or had she only delayed Peyton’s investigation? Just because he didn’t immediately seize on her mistakes didn’t mean he didn’t notice them, or remember. Like a tiger stalking its dinner, he may be biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

She whispered so only he could hear, “I’m going to pretend the last few minutes didn’t occur. Would you be so kind as to do the same?”

“Are you certain, my lady? I may not be able to secure you the exact painting, but I’m sure I could find something simil–”

“That is unnecessary,” she rushed out. “I was obviously unaware of the painting’s subject.”

“Yet you interrupted me to gush over it. Or was there another reason you didn’t want me asking Dryfus about your conversations?”

Her cheeks heated like the pink cheeks of the ladies in the scandalous artwork, although in the painting, they were the ladies’ lower cheeks. “No reason.”

He raised an eyebrow, and for just a moment, he was an entirely different man altogether.

Powerful.

Commanding.

Dangerous.

He was affecting her too much, risking the mission and her sanity. “After this visit, we will go our separate ways.”

“I think not.” His answer was calm and certain, a denial without argument. “I will be accompanying you the rest of today. Then we will discuss our upcoming schedule.”

Upcoming schedule? “We do not have a schedule. You have a schedule, I have a schedule, and after today, the two will not meet.”

“We’ll see about that.”

She opened her mouth to retort, when Dryfus’ voice grew louder. They both turned back to the baron and his extensive cravat tutorial. When he stopped to take a breath, Priscilla jumped in, “Have you heard of the mysterious man who saved the woman by the docks?”

Emma tightened.

Priscilla gave the first genuine smile since Dryfus described his seventh favorite cravat. Likely, she thought she’d rescued them all, yet instead they’d embarked on a far more dangerous path. “It sounds terribly exciting. I wonder who he could be.”

“Likely he’s far less extraordinary than the story suggests.” Peyton shrugged mildly. “No doubt the tale has been embellished a hundred times.”

“He was quite amazing.” At Peyton’s harsh glare, Emma sat up straighter. “But as you said, the story is likely exaggerated. The men probably ran away since they no longer had an easy target.”

Peyton’s expression darkened. “Hopefully, whoever is responsible for the woman will be more careful in the future. She should not be walking alone in such an area, especially at that time of day.”

“I quite agree.” Dryfus fluffed his cravat. “Women should be protected at all times. They simply cannot care for themselves.”

Emma somehow managed not to accidentally spill tea on someone’s twelfth favorite cravat. “I do not agree with that statement, my lord.”

“Lady Emma, I implore you to defer to the men on this.” Dryfus looked past his rather elongated nose. “After all, I was at the docks.”

“You were there when the man saved the woman?” Emma couldn’t hide the disbelief in her voice. Was this another of his embellished tales? He had been known to spin some rather fantastic stories. Still if there was any chance…

Dryfus plucked at his embellished sleeves. “I can’t confirm anything. My position is rather delicate. Such things are confidential.”

Confidential? Was he suggesting he was some sort of spy? Of course some lords ran errands for the government, but the pompous, arrogant Dryfus couldn’t possibly do something so brave, or dangerous. Yet if one were to keep a completely open mind, a spy might make an effort to pretend to be the opposite of daring and dashing. Could he succeed to this extent? “Did you get a good look at the man?”

“Oh yes.” Dryfus glanced back and forth, as if on a furtive mission. “Let’s just say I was as close as you could get.”

“You don’t mean to say you were–”

“Shhh!” Dryfus screeched.

Emma stared. Likely the baron was merely posturing, yet there was no way to be certain. After all, who would guess she was an active member of a secret social action group?

Peyton lifted himself off the seat. “We must depart, but I assure you we will keep our silence.”

“I appreciate the discretion.” The baron stood with exaggerated flair. “It truly could be a matter of–” He lowered his voice. “Life and death.”

If he were the rescuer, he was also the best actor in all of London.

Peyton took her arm as she rose, sending a streak of awareness through her blood. It took all her self-discipline to pretend it didn’t affect her as they walked outside into the temperate afternoon. The baron’s announcement may have provided some distraction, but it wouldn’t save her. Peyton would remember the baron talking about social action, as well as her less than successful attempts to distract him. Would he let it go?

There was a greater chance Baron Dryfus was her rescuer.

Dryfus had been lying.

The women had regarded the baron with a mixture of disbelief, suspicion and curiosity, and while they didn’t outright believe him, they seemed slightly uncertain.

Not him.

The pompous ass had simply made it up. If he hadn’t known Dryfus couldn’t possibly be the rescuer, his overzealous attitude made it clear. No secret agent would so carelessly reveal his identity.

Of course, he had been careless himself when he’d shown Emma his strength. It was dangerous revealing his true self and the abilities behind it. His facade protected him, and more importantly, those he cared about.

Emma had seemed uncomfortable when Dryfus had mentioned social causes. Was that part of her subterfuge? Hopefully their visit to the home of Lord Charlton would provide illumination. The portly man was jovial, boisterous and talkative .

Their host greeted them with a wide smile. “Lord Peyton, how wonderful you’ve returned from overseas! We’ve heard so much about your travels.”

Next to him, Emma was as tight as a debutante’s corset.

Philip kept his gaze mild. “How splendid.”

“Lady Emma relayed your many messages.” Lord Charlton showed them to a silver and green drawing room, where a generous spread had already been arranged. The spacious room was luxurious, filled with priceless antiques set on wide cherry wood pedestals. “I value your opinion very highly.”

“So kind of you to say.” Philip sent a sideways glance to the ladies, as they sat and took refreshments. Emma studied her tiny sandwich with ferocity, while Lady Priscilla gave similar scrutiny to her teacup.

“In fact, I have made many decisions based on your suggestions.”

“Indeed?” Philip didn’t lift his own teacup from the jewel-encrusted table, instead sitting straight on the stiff settee.

He opened his mouth to ask more, yet Emma preempted him. “Lord, Charlton, you have the best cook in all of London. Would you be so kind as to share your favorite dishes?”

That was it. Like Dryfus with his cravats, Charlton had a passion for food. He spoke at length about his cook’s creations, and judging by the quality of the refreshments, the boasts were no exaggeration. After the subject of food, Emma immediately began a discussion of the weather. Then it was back to food, the weather again and even cravats .

Clearly she was desperate.

Yet he would not allow her to control the conversation forever. During a rare moment of silence, he stepped in. “Lord Charlton, you mentioned my suggestions. Which topic did you discuss the most?”

“Nothing of great consequence,” Emma answered for their host, dropping her uneaten sandwich onto her plate. “I just shared the usual news.”

“As did I,” Priscilla added. “We passed along advice from a variety of sources.”

How curious. Was Priscilla involved in whatever Emma was hiding? He turned his attention back to the older man. “She didn’t mention anything in particular?”

“Of course not,” Emma interjected. “I say, aren’t these cucumbers delicious? Really some of the best I’ve had. Where can you find them?”

“I imagine a vine,” Philip said dryly.

Lady Priscilla chuckled.

Emma looked like she was wishing for a lake, a rickety boat and a rather cross alligator.

A servant entered the room and engaged Charlton. Philip leaned closer to Emma. “I know what you’re doing. At least cucumbers are a safer topic than paintings.”

She turned a rather lovely shade of pink. It took every bit of control not to caress the flush from her cheeks.

“Actually–” Charlton returned to the conversation as the servant departed. “Your suggestions were most wise.”

Emma paled, and the urge to comfort her grew stronger. It was an unusual feeling for a man who resisted emotion as a method of survival. It was also not without risk, for any touching in the ton’s glittering drawing rooms indicated familiarity. Of course, all was forgiven for the betrothed. Which officially they were not.

Whether that would change was very much up for contention.

He fought his urges a moment more, then edged closer, touching her back. Under his palm, muscles clenched, yet still he pressed closer. For a second, she held herself as straight as a general marching to war, but then she softened, relaxing ever so slightly into him. A surge of satisfaction raced through him.

He turned back to Charlton. “What did you find the most useful?”

Charlton rubbed his thin gray mane. “Really, all of it was insightful, but I’d say the information on the factories was the most jarring of all. I never understood the conditions, especially for children.” He frowned deeply. “Uncomfortable matters, that. Let’s talk about something else. Have you heard of the mysterious man who saved the lady?”

“Actually it’s time to go.” Emma shot up, knocking into the teacups, filling the room with high-pitched chimes. “We wouldn’t want to intrude upon you any longer.”

Philip hid his displeasure as he stood. Word had indeed spread about the adventure Emma didn’t know they shared.

Lord Charlton smiled warmly. “It’s never an imposition. And so nice you can convey your messages in person now.” He led them to the door. “One thing before you leave. Any opinion on the upcoming vote regarding orphanages?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but Emma spoke first, “Lord Peyton has just returned, and does not have the latest information. I’d be happy to assist you.”

How very peculiar. “I appreciate that, but I am fully informed on the upcoming vote.”

Emma smiled tightly. “Of course, my lord.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peyton watched her as he answered the lord’s question, speaking in depth about the important social action vote. Emotion passed through her eyes, first dismay, then surprise and finally slow yet clear satisfaction. By the time he finished the long explanation in which he voiced his strong approval for children’s rights, she was gazing with what could almost be described as admiration.

And despite his strongest efforts, he could not stop raw satisfaction at having elicited it.

“Thank you,” the elderly lord gushed. “I assumed that would be your position, but I wanted to make sure.”

“Of course.” Yet in truth he received more information than he bestowed, as Emma’s true motives began to show.

With final farewells, they stepped into the bright afternoon. It was the height of visiting hours, and the walkways were full of life. Well-to-do pedestrians strolled, promenaded and glided down tree-lined streets, bordered by expensive townhomes, each grander than the next. Since their next stop was a short distance away, they would walk instead of taking the carriage.

Philip touched Emma’s back. She tensed slightly, yet didn’t retreat. Although her motives were unknown, her simple goodness was undeniable. She’d been kind and patient with Charlton, and had shown a true interest in social action causes. The more he got to know her, the more he was interested in continuing the betrothal, or perhaps changing it to something else.

Something permanent.

“You don’t think Dryfus was actually the rescuer, do you?”

Philip glanced at Emma. The words had been said conversationally, yet something deeper lurked underneath them.

“That pompous man go against a gang of reprobates?” Priscilla broke in with an un-duchess like snort. “You can’t seriously believe it was him.”

He should stay silent, yet the thought of Dryfus taking credit for his deeds was simply too much to bear. “He doesn’t possess the personality to conduct such a task. The true rescuer probably left London.”

“Not if he’s a lord,” Emma countered. “He could be anyone. He could be walking on this street this very moment.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps he is right next to you, listening to your every word.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” she countered. “Many are not as they seem.”

“Do you have secrets, Lady Emma?”

Her lips parted. “I–”

“I have to stop in the bookstore to see if my book on vases arrived,” Priscilla interrupted, even as Emma’s expression flashed relief. “Can I catch up with you in a moment?”

“Of course.” With a nod, Emma continued on. And to no surprise, changed the subject without answering his question. “You’re right about Dryfus, of course. He would never do something so heroic. Someone that skilled probably uses his abilities in other capacities.”

A warning spiked through him. “Other capacities?”

“Perhaps he does this regularly. Like some sort of…” She lowered her voice. “Spy.”

It took every ounce of control to remain neutral. “Isn’t that a bit fanciful, Lady Emma?”

“Not at all. As I said, many hide who they truly are.”

“I am beginning to realize that.”

Her face reddened. They came to a narrower space in the walkway, and she had to draw near to pass. The scent of jasmine incited his senses, as they brushed against each other. They emerged to a wider area, yet she remained close.

It felt right.

“And what of you, Lord Peyton?” She turned her bright golden gaze on him. “What do you do when not infringing on the rights of poor ladies.”

“A poor lady, are you?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“Well, I suppose I do what most men do. I meet the responsibilities of the earldom, and ensure the welfare of those in my care.” He splayed his hand wider on her back. “Including you.”

She flushed and turned away, yet shockingly, didn’t argue. “You’re probably right about Dryfus. He swoons regularly.” She turned back to him. “So what would he be like?”

“Dryfus?”

“No, a spy.” She grinned, and gave him a tap on the shoulder.

It almost made him forget she was hunting him.

She picked up her stride. “Of course he would have a large build, although the right clothing could minimize his appearance. He would be capable of amazing physical feats. He would be a good man, yet perhaps understated. An extraordinary man who pretends to be ordinary. Someone like–”

“Stanton.”

Emma halted, as Priscilla emerged from behind them. “What?”

“Stanton,” the duchess repeated, gesturing to the wide, white townhome before them. “We’re here.”

“Someone like Stanton,” Emma murmured.

Philip frowned. Stanton was a far more plausible offering than Dryfus. He had the right build, was an accomplished sportsman and conducted himself as an upstanding gentleman. Philip didn’t have many dealings with him, however, and to his knowledge he wasn’t involved with the agency.

Emma’s eyes glowed as she rang the doorbell.

Could Stanton be the man she considered a potential love match?

Perhaps he would show a little of his power, after all.

“You are simply delightful.” Emma gushed.

“No, it is you who are delightful,” Stanton returned.

A vase clattered on the table, as Peyton “accidentally” brushed by it. She ignored it. She would not react to the decidedly not delighted Peyton.

She smiled wider at Stanton. “No, it is you who is delightful.”

Peyton leaned back and folded his formidable arms across his chest. He looked out of place in the lavender drawing room, which had been decorated for Stanton’s many sisters. Plush carpeting, plusher couches and even plusher pillows joined ruffled adornments. Every flower in London was represented in the tapestries lining the walls.

Stanton gave the earl an affable smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Peyton. You were away for some time.”

“A few months,” Peyton rumbled. “I suppose Emma told you about my trip.”

“Not at all.”

“Surely she told you how I feel with the votes.”

Stanton shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“What about my rash?”

Emma choked.

Priscilla guffawed.

Stanton raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid the subject of you never arose. We usually discuss social action causes.”

Emma’s smile faltered. What rotten luck. Although she discussed her causes with Stanton, she never brought Peyton into it. Stanton was a considerate gentleman, and listened to her opinions, despite her gender. Did Peyton realize social action was greater than a little part of her life?

Stanton offered her a smile. “Usually my sisters are here, but they are visiting my great aunt. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Emma replied warmly. “It’s always a joy to converse with you. I look forward to our lively conversation.”

“Too bad we only have a few minutes to chat,” Peyton commented.

She speared Peyton with a severe look. “We have more than a couple of minutes.”

A pair of crisply dressed maids entered the room, one with an intricate tea service and the other with a golden plate piled high with steaming pastries. The scent of apples and cinnamon drifted in as they arranged the platters artfully on the wide table.

After the servants left and tea was poured, Stanton gestured toward the buttery concoctions. “Please enjoy.”

Emma reached for a gooey, crusty tart. It was a little far, and she braced herself to rise.

“Allow me.” Peyton grasped one of the pastries. His hand brushed hers.

She stilled. His presence lingered on her skin, even as he served the others and took his own tart. He took a bite. His lips were sensual and pliant and oh-so-tempting.

He was far more delicious than any pastry.

She forced herself to move, taking a tiny nibble of her tart. The taste of fresh apples burst into her mouth, seasoned with just the right amount of sugar and cinnamon. It was gooey, smooth and warm, as it melted against her tongue. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste.

Opened them to see two men staring at her.

“Excuse me.” Her cheeks heated as she delicately patted her lips with a linen napkin. “These apple tarts are the best in London.”

Peyton stared a moment more, cleared his throat. “Tell me, Lord Stanton, what activities draw your interest?”

Stanton relaxed back. “The usual. My sisters regularly coerce me to attend society functions. I may complain, but I am grateful for our close relationship.”

Peyton frowned lightly. Was he thinking of his relationship with Catherine? She pressed on, “Stanton resides entirely in London and his nearby country estate. He stays close to his family.”

Peyton gazed at her with fathomless eyes. “Exactly as I plan to do.”

“One hears such promises often.”

“Only this one will be kept.”

Stanton looked between the two of them. “Then I can expect to see you often. There are quite a few events this time of year. I organize some activities if you are interested.”

“I appreciate the offer.” Peyton nodded noncommittally. “Now that the marriage mart is in full force, there is much to do.”

For a moment, the two men shared an unexpected look of camaraderie. Both Peyton and Stanton were hounded by the matchmaking mothers, although the chaos around Peyton had abated somewhat since the supposed arrangement.

Emma took another bite of her tart. Perhaps now would be the perfect time to conduct her own investigation. “Lord Stanton, have you heard of the man who overcame a group of miscreants by the docks?”

“Indeed,” he affirmed. “It’s all anyone can speak about.”

She gave a soft sigh. “Such a hero to dispatch those thugs and save the woman. And how extraordinary he overcame so many when he was outnumbered.”

“Indeed. I wish I had been able to see such a feat.”

“Are you certain you did not?”

Stanton looked startled. “I’m sorry?”

“I was just curious.” Emma straightened her skirt. “One lord suggested he saw it, and I was wondering if anyone else did. Of course we have reason to believe the rescuer was a member of society. I was just wondering if you saw anything.”

“I’m afraid not.” Stanton cocked his head to the side. “Although I am curious as to his, and her, identity. I wonder if there is more to her than people realize.”

Emma tightened. “I’m certain there isn’t.” She pressed on, “Any suspicions on who it could be?”

Stanton looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “I have no idea–”

A scream shattered the air.