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Which beggared belief. If her dearest friend knew her, really knew her—what she’d done to Mr. Grimes, the depths to which she’d fallen to catch a killer—she’d emerge from the shadows of their lifelong friendship and never look back.

After his name was announced, Myles entered the Marquess of Putney’s ballroom and patiently waited for the games to begin. No matter the invitation, the marriage mart was an inevitable albatross hanging over every eligible gentleman’s head—especially his.

To emphasize his point, the heads of peers of the realm, gentry and wealthy merchants immediately snapped to attention at the announcement of his presence, eyes rounding on him like hawks espying prey, hovering vertically, and slowly rattling teeth.

Was it any wonder why he avoided the preposterous pomp, the hypocrisy, and the strict rules that held him aloft even in the country?

Men weren’t born great, but forged in fire and tried, earning respect from a lifetime of service to the Crown.

Responsibility outweighed selfish inclinations, though there were those who sneered at their due and destroyed the living as quickly as swatting an insect from the air.

Returning the astonished stares of those who studied him, he said to no one in particular, “So, it begins.”

Winterbourne.

The place where dreams ended. The home of the only young lady who’d ever tempted him, and the one he’d avoided at all cost—Lady Lora Putney.

There were hints that the extravagances and details provided this country house party were plotted and planned, for all intents and purposes, to secure Lora a suitable husband.

But which one had captured her heart? A nobleman?

A country squire, local vicar, farmer? And why did the idea of her marrying another bother him?

He had no claim on the marquess’s daughter.

Why, he didn’t know her and, like a damn fool, had never allowed himself the opportunity to do so.

The musicians returned to their work while Grimes’s accusations, the attempted robbery at Darby, and Stuart’s murder, tugged at him, shifting his perspective back to important matters.

There was no help to be had for this current commitment.

Even at the cost of avoiding a diamond of the first water.

Bollocks! This misery was damned inconvenient, nauseating even, leaving him to wade into murky depths.

One step into Winterbourne forced him to acknowledge that he could no longer ignore the facts.

Against his machinations and the powers of persuasion, a wallflower owned him body and soul.

Him. A duke! And the unforeseeable hiccup of their troubled past gutted cruelly, like a bayonet fixed on an attacking foe.

Except he was staring back at his own face.

Best come to terms with the decisions he’d made, a blunder of epic proportions meant to protect his heart. The damage had been done. To her. To him. The moon would fall from the sky before Lora would ever forgive his coldness, or he Fate, for the vastly different roads their paths had taken.

Too late, he’d come to the realization that he couldn’t purge Lora from his soul.

And now, there was no way to make amends.

Her father’s serious injury in a hunting accident kept her from participating in the marriage market.

Then his father had died of natural causes, jettisoning his life into mourning as he assumed his new role.

And woe betide them, Fate had struck again when someone murdered her brother, cutting him down squarely in his youth.

He’d made inquiries, unearthed no answers, and felt equally unqualified to offer the grieving solace.

What man had the power to alter the past for himself or another?

If he had, restoring a most beloved brother, indeed, the young Earl of Norbiton, to life would have been his first work.

But only God had that kind of governance over mankind.

So, life had gone on as it always had, in dreary fashion, season after season revolving with no resolution in sight.

How was he to know whether a young lady desired to marry the man he’d become or a dukedom? Fate didn’t deal fairly. The events close to home of late were a prime example of that incontestable fact.

Nevertheless, here he was, having never attended a ball in Kingston-upon-Thames as the Duke of Beresford.

Eton and Oxford, and timetables and tasks, had occupied him elsewhere as the Season and Society demanded.

But current events—the haunts of highwaymen and Stuart’s gruesome death—overruled despondency, disaster, and distance.

He’d best remember why he’d come to Winterbourne. Not for pleasure. And most certainly not for Lady Lora before she duly wed.

As magistrate, people expected him to wade through muck and uncover clues to the red-clad thief who was last seen leaving his property.

And the only way to gradually gain favor with the locals was to reveal the identity of that despicable woman in the midst of it all.

Although few people with good sense discussed peculiar matters with virtual strangers.

He focused on the sea of bobbing heads. Good manners and genuflections, flirtations and fancy were in plentiful supply as the musicians restarted Juliana , the mellifluous strains revitalizing the atmosphere.

Before too long, hesitancy to approach him waned, and a welcoming officiant advanced with a proper bow. “You honor us with your presence, Your Grace. Allow me to provide you with a warm Winterbourne welcome.”

“And you are?” he asked, aware, too late, that he sounded pompous.

“Philip Stanhope, at your service, Your Grace.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “Ah. The marquess’s solicitor.”

“Indeed. I am honored that you know who I am, Your Grace.”

“I make it a habit to learn everything about the people I have to thank for grand invitations.”

Tall and lithe, Stanhope’s genuine smile made the man instantly likable. “If I may be so bold, we were uncertain you would attend. It is the first time you’ve accepted an invitation from Kingston-upon-Thames.”

“Yes,” he said, bitten by regret. “Time has not been my own.”

Another bow, this one more clipped. “My condolences, Your Grace, of course. May I offer you a private room in Winterbourne? It is His Lordship’s hope that you will make use of it for the remainder of the party.”

Though proximity to Lady Lora might be insufferably hard to bear, the situation provided him more time to investigate the happenings in Kingston. He tilted his head in thanks. “Delightful.”

“If you will allow me to say so, Your Grace, your father was a good man.”

He offered a quick nod as he searched the room.

It did not differ from the more sophisticated establishments in London, filled as it was with matchmaking mamas, gesticulating fans and encouraging their daughters to pose to full effect.

A hornet’s nest. “Yes, I do say he was.” He paused.

“Stanhope, would you do me the honor of introductions? I have been preoccupied for far too long and I have not had the pleasure of meeting my neighbors.”

An expression of wonder transformed Stanhope’s face. “It would be an honor, Your Grace.”

The man stepped back, gesturing for Myles to accompany him. Guests offered them a wide berth as they passed. Wives, daughters and sons, and several uniformed men bowed and curtsied reverently. All because he was a duke. Not for who he was or what he stood for, but for a hereditary title.

“If I may, Your Grace.” Stanhope gestured to a group of men gathered by the hearth. “There, you will find the Honorable Thomas Hawkesbury and his son.”

“Hawkesbury.” Grimes’s client, in the flesh. “The marquess’s brother, if I am not mistaken.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The man’s demeanor swiftly changed. “After the death of the marquess’s son, he stands to inherit should?—”

“Understood,” he said as several couples walked past, arm-in-arm.

The pause enabled Myles to see that Stanhope was devoted to his master, Putney, and he strongly objected to the idea of losing the marquess. “From your tone, I take it you disapprove.”

“Of his brother? Heavens, no. Although, if anything happens to Hawkesbury?—”

“You may speak freely,” he said, desiring to learn as much as he could about the dynamics of the village. “The truth is all I seek.”

“I confess, Your Grace, my personal opinions are my own. I am a simple solicitor in the marquess’ service and do not wish to influence?—”

“But your profession endorses honesty, does it not?” He took in the merriment, recalling his youth and the occasions when Kingston had celebrated the harvest. “I insist.”

“Very well.” Stanhope nodded stiffly. “In the event something happens to Hawkesbury, the title will pass to the man’s son.

In that, I regret I have no say.” He turned to reveal more with caution.

“And it troubles me to admit the marquess’s brother hasn’t been himself of late.

My concern for Lord Putney and his brother grows by the day. ”

“May I ask why?”

Stanhope nodded to someone he knew. “Forgive me for saying so, but I have it on good authority that young Hawkesbury is a rakehell. And if that is still the case, his return to Kingston is not in anyone’s best interest, especially mine.”

Myles studied the fellow with the acute ability to weed out the chaff. “Go on.”

“He’s been known to drink heavily, gamble excessively, offend the ladies, and the list goes on. Decorum dictates, however, that the marquess extends his family every courtesy.”

“Of course.” Myles examined young Hawkesbury, who stood in his regimentals, his chest expanding with overblown satisfaction. In his dealings with the Admiralty, he’d witnessed a man or two altered by wartime commissions. Was Hawkesbury such a man? “War changes men.”

“Some for the better,” Stanhope replied grimly. “Some not.”

“And the marquess? Is he in attendance?”

“Regrettably, no. His daughter is present. She is there, modestly dressed and standing with the other young ladies assembled by the refreshment table.”

He searched the bevy of young swans glancing in his direction.

Pearls and ribbons adorned each fancy head, and jewels glistened around graceful necks.

Hopeful expressions lit faces with curiosity and delight, but he did not plan to be swayed by fancy and flirtation.

He hadn’t come to form attachments. He wasn’t in the market for a wife.

Not when his butler’s murderer roamed the countryside, and a bewitching woman in a red cloak held the key to the answers he sought.

The musicians created an ethereal atmosphere, and the wedge protecting the marquess’s daughter thinned as he watched one young pen after another flock elsewhere, abandoning the last three.

Before them, surefooted dancers basked in the refinement and splendor equal to lavish aristocratic events he’d attended in the city.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll make the introductions.”

He dragged his eyes away from Lora. “Thank you.”

Stanhope worked his way through the crush.

If anyone knew what was going on in Kingston-upon-Thames, it would be the marquess.

Despite the man’s choice not to make an appearance, it is possible that he was resting in an anti-room or library nearby, and an audience could be obtained through his only living child.

Dancers laughed gaily, their merriment contrasting wildly with the fierce impulses flowing through him to kill the man responsible for Stuart’s death—the contradiction catching him off guard.

His height offered advantage as they progressed, providing him an intriguing panorama the further they moved into the room, faces and speech put to memory.

Whilst players attended whist tables positioned in an adjacent room, making bets they hoped to win, men wallowed in self-importance, ignoring the disappointed hopes of women seated along the walls. A place, he noticed, Lora no longer occupied.

Candelabras illuminated the whole, beeswax and heat a heady mix.

Refreshments beckoned, all manner of delectable fruits, roasted pheasant and fowl, and a profusion of flowers presented on silver, crystal, and exquisite French china.

The marquess had spared no expense. Nevertheless, nothing would be more satisfying than obtaining an audience with Putney.

What would he have to do to get one?