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A s a young man, Finn had learned to follow his gut. Despite Macie’s protests to the contrary, he didn’t trust the miserable bloke she’d encountered by the old mansion. Why in blazes did Hiram Neville have an interest in her grandfather’s house—and with it, a library full of scholarly books?

His gut warned something was afoot. The trespasser Macie had found in the library had not searched for valuable antiquities. Instead, he’d rummaged through thick, dusty tomes. Could he be connected with Neville? Bloody peculiar . Damned if he wasn’t going to find out what the cantankerous old goat was after.

As he sat at the reins of his carriage, transporting Macie and Nell to their townhouse, he could not help but overhear Nell’s excited chatter about the upcoming ball. For the life of him, he could not understand her anticipation of an event that involved traipsing about in a blasted costume, hobnobbing with preening socialites and whey-faced lords. He had no bloody choice but to honor his agreement with Macie and suffer through the night.

Truth be told, he would’ve been there watching over her, blasted deal or not. Nothing and no one would keep him from her side. In the beginning, he’d expected to shield her from money-hungry jackals who might seek to coerce a beautiful heiress into a lucrative marriage. But now, he needed to protect her from a far greater menace than penniless lords seeking to marry into a fortune.

On the surface, Macie’s response to her encounter with Hiram Neville had been calm and dismissive of any threat the old man might pose. But he’d seen a different response in her eyes. He’d detected a quiet alarm in their depths, an instinctive reaction she couldn’t entirely hide.

The rumble of the carriage over the pavement helped him focus his thoughts away from Nell’s eager expectations for the night ahead to his next course of action. By the time he arrived at the townhouse, he’d decided on his next steps.

“You’re leaving now?” Macie’s brows quirked after he escorted them inside and informed the ladies he’d be heading to the Rogue’s Lair until later in the evening. “You’ll regret missing Mrs. Tuttle’s supper.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make.” He kept his tone light. “I need to shore up my strength before tomorrow’s ordeal.”

“Lady Fenwick’s parties are quite well done. You might be a grouch, but I fully intend to enjoy myself.” She flashed a little frown. “You’re looking for information about Mr. Neville from Logan’s contacts, aren’t you?”

“While I’m fortifying myself with a pint or two, I’ll see what I can draw out of his regulars.”

Her mouth curved at the corners. “You are dedicated to your duty, aren’t you?”

“My duty?”

Her smile was soft and genuine. “You’re quite the efficient bodyguard.”

“Trust me when I say this, Macie—my interest in keeping you safe has nothing to do with any blasted duty.”

*

In Finn’s experience, a drinking hole was the best place to dig out the skeletons in the closets of so-called gentlemen, down-on-their luck gamblers, and buttoned-up pillars of the community with something to hide. In the years since Logan MacLain had offered his first round of whisky at the Rogue’s Lair, the tavern had become a popular destination for moneyed blokes and down-on-their-luck lords, the best place in London for a man to put his ear to the ground for news that would never make it into the morning edition.

As Finn maneuvered around the patrons gathered around the billiard table, gaslight cast a glow over the polished wood tables at the Rogue’s Lair. He headed straight to the spot where the barkeep stood, polishing a silver stein. Murray set down the stein, turned to him, and passed him a mug filled with his favorite ale.

“I saw you come in, Caldwell,” he said. “You looking for Logan?”

“He’s here tonight?”

Murray nodded. “In the back. Knowing him, he already aware you’re here.”

“He doesn’t miss much,” Finn agreed, offered thanks for the drink, and headed back to Logan’s office.

Seated at a massive oak desk, Logan looked up from the paperwork he’d been reviewing. His brows quirked in surprise.

“I hadn’t expected to see ye tonight. I thought ye’d be hard at work trying on the hose for the ball tomorrow night.”

“Bloody hell, MacLain. I will not be wearing blasted tights, or any such nonsense. Where would ye get a notion like that?”

“Amelia informed me that there’s a rumor ye’re dressing as some medieval archer who shall remain nameless.”

“Not a chance in Hades. Your dear wife has been misinformed.”

Logan motioned for him to take a seat. “In that case, have ye come seeking advice on your costume? Amelia dragged me to one of those torturous affairs last winter.”

“Blasted shame I wasn’t there to see that.”

“She decided we should dress as a pirate and his wench. Other than the bandana and the sword at my hip, I looked as I do every night at this place.” He glanced down at his black trousers and shirt. “And I forced myself to mutter the words ‘Avast ye mateys’ a few times. But Amelia played the wench with the flair of a natural-born actress. Bloody hell, she was lovely.” Logan grinned at the memory. “I suspect that was the night our babe—” With a shake of his head, he broke off the statement before he said too much.

“I doubt the ball will prove as memorable for me,” Finn spoke the truth. “But for different reasons. With any luck, the night will prove a bore.”

“I’d say that’s unlikely given the company ye’re keeping.”

“I suspect ye’re right. But I’m not here for advice. I need information,” Finn said. “If ye’ve got it.”

Logan’s brow furrowed. “What do ye need?”

“This afternoon, a stranger approached Macie outside of Bennington Manor. He gave the name Hiram Neville and claimed to have known her grandfather.”

“Hiram Neville? I’ve heard the name.” Logan leaned back in his leather wing chair. “But not in this place.”

Seated across from Logan, Finn reached for his mug and took a drink. “What do ye know about him?”

“Amelia was having a tea last week with some of her library patrons. One of the women is an active supporter of one of the museums. I recall hearing the name. An upstanding citizen, or so the lady said. Evidently, he’s one of the museum’s most generous donors. What business do ye have with him?”

“That doesn’t sound like the same bloke who took it upon himself to threaten Macie this afternoon. But if it is, I’ll be paying him a visit if he shows his face to her again.”

Logan’s brow furrowed. “What in blazes did the man do?”

“He wants to get his hands on her grandfather’s library and possibly the house.” Finn stretched out his legs, letting out a low breath. “He’ll have to go through me first.”

Logan took a drink, regarding him with a cryptic look. Finally, he said, “Ye’re taking the role of protector seriously, aren’t ye, my friend?”

“I gave Jon my word I’d watch over her.”

“Ye’ll honor yer word. Ye always do.” Logan nodded his understanding. “Ye care about her, don’t ye?”

“Ye could say that,” Finn said coolly. “She’s a lady and deserves to be treated like one.”

“The lass is clever. Full of spirit.” Logan regarded him for a long moment, as if he’d seen the truth behind Finn’s bland words. “She could challenge a man like ye.”

“A woman like Macie could challenge any man. She’s a bloody original.”

“She’s a diamond. Ye know that, don’t ye?”

Finn stared down at the ale in his stein, stalling for time. Logan’s question had caught him off guard. “That she is. There’s no denying it. And that’s where I come in—it’s my job to discourage the heiress hunters who treat her like a prize to be won.”

“Ah, the noble nobs.” Logan smiled. “Amelia was quite amused by Macie’s description of the fortune hunters intent on courting her.”

“She’s held them off all this time.” Finn stared down at his drink. “A man would have to be a blasted fool to fall for Macie Mason.”

“Does that include ye, cousin?”

Finn shot him a scowl. “Ye’ve better odds of seeing the queen dance the can-can at Covent Garden than of seeing me lose my head over a woman. Not that it would make a blasted bit of difference if I did. The lass wants a diversion, nothing more. I’m a decoy she can use to run off the money-hungry blokes desperate enough to put up a chase.”

Logan leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin, as he often did when he was pondering a matter. “Ye’re sure of that?”

“Macie and I are like fire and ice. We’re too bloody different.”

“That’s where ye’re wrong.” Logan slowly shook his head. “From what I’ve seen of Miss Mason, yer natures are very much alike.”

“What in blazes do ye mean by that?”

Logan shrugged. “Ye’ll see. In due time. But that’s not why ye came here tonight. Ye want me find out what I can about Neville. I’ll see what Amelia can gather from her friends while we keep alert for any talk of the man around the bar.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Finn said, toying with one of the chess pieces on Logan’s desk. The knight. Fitting indeed, given the way he felt like he was clanking around in rusty armor, all too eager to play defender to his queen.

“There’s something else,” Logan said. “The gent from the detective bureau who likes the sound of his own voice was in here tonight. Murray steered his talk to the old man in the hospital. The detectives believe they’ve learned his identity.”

“Bloody hell,” Finn said under his breath. “Who is he?”

“The talker told Murray the intruder’s name is Smythson. He’s not a common thief. To the contrary, he’s a scholar.”

“What in blazes are ye telling me?”

“A woman came searching for a relative who’d gone missing. She confirmed the man lying in that hospital is her uncle. Evidently, the old gent stirred a bit at the sound of her voice.”

“Bloody hell.”

“The man was a professor at a university in Scotland, an expert in the same ancient statues and such that Miss Mason’s grandfather sought for his collection.”

“Her grandfather was an expert in his own right. They may have known each other.”

“It’s a distinct possibility. Until we find out what the professor was doing in that old house, I’d suggest ye not leave her unattended.”

“She’ll chafe at the very thought of being tethered to me.”

Logan took a swig of his drink, as if fortifying himself for what he was going to say next. “I have an idea, but ye’re not going to like it.”

“Good God.” Finn read his cousin’s expression before he could utter the words. “Ye’re thinking I should call on... the Dragon?”

Logan nodded. “Amelia’s convinced the fire-breather in skirts would be a perfect companion for Miss Mason and her friend, especially as they travel about the city during the day.”

“Bollocks,” Finn said under his breath. “Ye do like to see yer cousin suffer, don’t ye?”

“Ah, ye’re a man of courage,” Logan said with a chuckle. “Ye can take it.”

“I’m not so blasted sure of that.” Finn rubbed a sudden ache in his neck. The Dragon—better known as Logan’s aunt, Mrs. Elsie Johnstone, was a force of nature. When they were lads, they’d compared her to the fiery, mythical creature. Not much in the woman’s temperament had changed since then. But Mrs. Johnstone did possess a unique set of skills, and she was the most trustworthy soul he’d ever met.

“What do ye think?” Logan asked.

“This might just work. The key word being might. If we were to seek her assistance, how should we go about it?”

“Amelia takes tea with her at least once a week. She’d be happy to send her a message in the morning. Aunt Elsie is planning to attend the masquerade tomorrow night. It’s all she’s talked about for the last fortnight. She’ll have no trouble breaking the ice with the ladies.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Finn said with a chuckle. “They’ll form an alliance.”

Amusement flashed over Logan’s features. “So much the better for ye,” he said. “Miss Mason possesses a natural boldness. Ye can’t be there every minute to watch over her. But Aunt Elsie can teach her some ways to protect herself.”

Once again, the back of Finn’s neck tightened with tension. “More ways for Macie to send the heiress hunters running for cover?”

Logan slowly shook his head. “It’s not the heiress hunters ye need to worry about.” The amusement drained from his eyes. “It’s the bastard who wanted the professor dead.”

*

On more than one night, during that time Finn looked back upon with a certain nostalgia as his wild youth, he had stealthily returned home at an hour that would’ve forced his mother to pretend she was shocked. He’d enjoyed the hours before his covert entrance—imbibing ale, learning how to throw and take a bare-knuckled punch, and if he wasn’t too bruised and battered, charming a barmaid or two. The experience had been well worth the risk of incurring a stern lecture from his father that included the words wastrel and vagabond.

In the years since, Finn had never had to sneak into a home, save for one time when invited by a particularly fetching dollar princess who longed for a dalliance before her marriage to some tight-collard viscount. Until the night Macie and her friend had cloaked him in the ridiculous disguise and ushered him into their residence.

At least tonight, he had a bloody key to the house. And he had not needed to conceal his features. However, as always, there was a catch.

Mrs. Tuttle has prepared a room for you. Before he’d headed to the Rogue’s Lair, Macie had told him with a little grin on her face that he would no longer have to endure sleeping upon the sparsely upholstered, half-a-foot-too-short object of torture she called a settee. But there was a caveat—Mrs. Tuttle had insisted—for the sake of decorum, of course—that he occupy one of the servants’ quarters and return to the house through the servants’ entrance.

At that moment, he’d thought nothing of it. A bed was a bed. He’d get sleep, and his back and legs would not feel hobbled in the morn.

But now, lying on a comfortable bed in a modest, neatly appointed room, he knew why he’d detected an air of mischief in Macie’s smile. Surely she’d known what he’d be facing that night, alone in his quarters.

Mrs. Tuttle’s chamber was directly beside his. He presumed the housekeeper was alone behind the door to her room. But she was chattering enough for two, at the very least.

The woman talked in her sleep. Bloody hell. But talking didn’t quite describe the range of sounds emanating from the housekeeper’s chamber. A few words he couldn’t quite make out drifted through the wall between their chambers, followed by a shout. A few minutes after that, a cry jarred him while he was taking off his boots. One fell to the floor with a thud. Later, while he lay in bed, more chatter with a hearty laugh mixed in for good measure yanked him from the beginnings of slumber. Good God. Was this going to go on all night?

Suddenly, the sound of a soft snore—or was it a purr?—joined the erratic chorus coming from Mrs. Tuttle’s chamber. But this was closer. Very close, indeed.

“Cleo, ye wee minx,” he said, lighting a lamp. He spotted Macie’s cat, curled up on a side chair, happily dozing.

He rolled over, pounded a pillow to smooth out a few lumps of feathers, and closed his eyes. The cat’s contented snores permeated the confined space, a somehow fitting accompaniment to Mrs. Tuttle’s unsettled murmurs. At least one of them was getting some rest that night.

Through it all, his mind wandered. It was going to be a bloody long night. Again and again, Logan’s words echoed in his thoughts.

It’s not the heiress hunters ye need to worry about. It’s the bastard who wanted the professor dead.