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Valemount’s billiard room was even more ornate than the one at Thornton’s country manor, Beckley Park, had been. It was decorated in hunting trophies and in addition to the billiards table also sported a large round card table surrounded by velvet chairs.

Some of the other guests had been invited, and they’d ended up with a group of eight men that included Wesley and Valemount, but also Thornton, Lord Ryland, Sir Reginald and three other members of the hunt.

As they took their seats, three footmen appeared, one carrying cards and poker chips, one with a silver tray of crystal tumblers and three bottles, and the third with a box of cigars.

When he reached Wesley’s seat, Wesley made a show of looking the cigars over and then chose one at random.

Sir Reginald picked up his drink the instant it was poured. “Suppose it’s no surprise the Spaniard went with the ladies.” The man had already had several drinks with dinner. At a table like this, the stakes would be outrageously high; it didn’t bode well for his wallet.

“You’ll notice Geoffrey also joined them,” Wesley said dryly. “So if you’re trying to imply something unsavory about Latin men’s desire for women, you ought to extend it to our countrymen as well.”

Sir Reginald’s expression soured. Good.

“Don Sebastian told me he’s not much of a hunter.” Valemount picked up the deck of cards. “Perhaps he’s not much for poker, either.”

Sebastian had said Valemount called him to the gun room, to offer a hunting weapon. Had that truly been his entire motive? But what else might he have wanted with Sebastian?

“The ladies seem happy to have Don Sebastian’s company, at any rate,” Lord Ryland remarked drolly, as the footmen finished attending them and disappeared back out the doors on silent feet.

“It’s the most I’ve ever seen Nora willingly speak to a man.” Valemount’s gaze went to Wesley. “You said your Spanish friend is in England on holiday? By himself, it seems—no wife at home, then?”

A particularly uncivilized emotion began to curl in Wesley’s gut. “What an interesting question.” He struck a match on his thumbnail, and the flame burst into life in blue and red. “Don Sebastian is a bachelor, yes.”

“And has he said anything to you about my niece?” Valemount pressed. “She’s got a rather dour disposition, but he seems like the kind of chap who tolerates that sort of thing.”

“It’d be difficult for him to bear my company otherwise,” Wesley said coolly.

“You think Lady Nora likes him?” Sir Reginald asked.

“Oh, I don’t give a good goddamn what she likes,” Valemount said bluntly. “She’s my last unmarried niece and I’d wager her off at this table if I could. Here I’ve been trying to solve the problem of what to do with her when lo and behold, Fine here brings me an answer—send her to Spain.”

That drew laughs from the other men at the table. “Brilliant,” Thornton said. “How do I do that with my wife?”

Wesley brought the cigar to his lips, gaze on Valemount. Did the duke suspect Sebastian’s true identity? Or was Nora the real reason Valemount had put together an impromptu hunt and invited them both? “You think to match Lady Nora and Don Sebastian, then?”

Valemount spread his hands. “Think of it as international diplomacy.”

Sir Reginald snorted. “They could launch a diplomatic mission to save the foxes together.”

Valemount laughed again, as did all the other men around the table. Except for Wesley, who lit the tip of the cigar and inhaled the smoke that was just as poisonous as his cigarettes but cost fifty times as much.

“And what say you, Fine?” Valemount had a sly sort of smile. “Will you offer up your Spaniard for my diplomacy?”

Wesley blew out smoke. “He was planning to return to London with me.”

Valemount waved that away. “Leave him behind,” he said, like Wesley’s wants, or even Sebastian’s own, were no matter at all. “Think what a striking couple Don Sebastian and Nora would make—no nice man would stand in their way.”

Possibly not. Wesley, however, was not, and would never be, a nice man .

“Think on it, at least.” Valemount bridged the deck. “Shall I deal, gentlemen? Lord Fine, don’t tell me you’re as good at cards as you are with a gun.”

Wesley picked up his whiskey, an amber-gold brown in the dim light, like Sebastian’s eyes. “Funny you should mention that,” he said, tilting the glass. “In fact, only days ago I was bested by a twenty-one-year-old American antiquarian.”

There was another chuckle around the table, this time with a derisive edge. Sebastian would have let them laugh because he was strong enough not to care if other men thought he was weak.

Wesley let them laugh because battles were easier when one disarmed one’s opponents first.

“Really?” Valemount said, as he began to deal.

“I’m afraid so,” Wesley said truthfully. “Terribly embarrassing, honestly; I was so confident I could win, and then, in his own words, he took me straight to the cleaners.”

“And is that how your games usually go?” Thornton asked, eying Wesley over his drink.

Of course it wasn’t how Wesley’s games usually went. Rory was fucking psychometric. Take magic out of the equation, and Wesley generally obliterated his opponents at cards. Or billiards. Or revenge.

“Well.” Wesley set his whiskey down, unsipped. “I don’t typically lose to antiquarians .”

The other men laughed again. Wesley used their distraction to subtly push his whiskey to the side.

“At least you’ve got deep pockets,” Sir Reginald said, rubbing his hands together like Wesley had brought him Christmas.

Valemount began to deal. “Get your bets ready, gents.”

As cards landed in front of him, Wesley tapped the ash off his cigar and put it back to his lips. Valemount wanted a suitor for his niece and thought he could help himself to Sebastian.

The fucking audacity.

* * *

Sebastian got his coat and a flashlight from the staff, claiming he was just stepping out for a smoke. The footman directed him to a door on the ground floor that opened to a portico and then the gardens beyond.

It was perhaps a quarter mile’s walk to the bottom of the garden and then back up the next hill to the guest house.

Sebastian buttoned his coat tight as he strolled through tall hedges and past manicured shrubs.

The heavier rain had eased to a misty fog, but the air was cold, and the moon and stars were blocked by the clouds just visible against the night sky.

The guest house itself seemed even bigger up close, larger and more impressive than any home most people would ever own.

Unlike the prior night, when they’d arrived, all of the windows were dark now, giving it a foreboding, unwelcoming countenance.

Sebastian cautiously climbed the front steps on light feet; if the foundation really was undergoing repairs, he needed to be careful where he stepped.

But there was no evidence of ongoing repairs anywhere; no evidence of anyone at all inside.

He tried the front door, which opened easily.

When you lived miles from the nearest village—or even the road—with a whole staff to man your grounds, perhaps you didn’t worry too much about intruders.

Sebastian stepped inside the front hall, under the chandelier suspended from the vaulted two-story ceiling.

His flashlight beam illuminated rich carpets leading into other rooms to both his right and his left, and in front of him, a carved staircase gracefully curving up to the second floor.

It was silent inside, but not dusty. Empty, but not abandoned.

Sebastian ducked into every room on the first floor, shining his flashlight around the floors and walls, but there was no evidence that anyone had stayed there recently—no books off the shelves in the library, no cushions out of place on the settee; no drapes open on the windows.

He went up the stairs instead, which opened into a long hall lined with bedrooms. He went into each one in turn, not sure exactly what he was looking for but finding nothing out of the ordinary.

Finally, at the room at the very end of the hall, Sebastian’s flashlight found something out of place: a black glove on the floor, just barely visible against the dark floor where it poked out from under the bed.

He bent and picked it up, turning it over in his hands.

It seemed to be a typical thick glove, like anyone might wear to keep their hands warm in winter—except it had no fingertips, as if they’d been cut off.

Suddenly, from downstairs, he heard a voice.

“Don Sebastian? Did you come in here?”

What on earth was Geoffrey doing in the guest house? Sebastian hastily crammed the glove into his overcoat pocket and hurried back to the stairs. “Mr. Collins?” he called, as he took the first steps down.

“Man, what are you doing ?” Geoffrey said, sounding very much like Wesley when he was irritated. “You can’t be in here.”

Sebastian winced. “I know, but I was being mindful of the foundation—”

“That’s not the issue,” Geoffrey said testily. “That’s just a lie Valemount told to keep us all out. Apparently some distant cousin of his was staying in here, ill as anything. That’s the real reason we’re in the main house.”

Sebastian frowned. “ Was staying in here?”

“He’s been moved to a hospital,” Geoffrey said. “I only found out because I nearly wandered in here myself out of habit; I usually stay in the guest house on these hunts. But I ran into the man’s doctor, who had to explain the real situation to me.”

“A doctor?” Sebastian said in shock. “What was his name?”

“How would I know?” In the edge of the flashlight beam, Geoffrey looked a lot like Wesley then too, as he eyed Sebastian curiously. “Why are you down here anyway? Wesley said you’ve got that Mediterranean blood and hate the cold.”

“I wanted to see the gardens at night,” Sebastian lied. “Why are you here?”

“I saw you leave the gallery and the footman said you’d gone out,” Geoffrey said.

“So you followed me?” Sebastian said.