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“Take your hands off her!” Viscount Amberson cried, but Hanover held her tight against his chest, the knife angled against the delicate skin of her throat.

Georgette watched pain flicker in her viscount’s eyes as he saw the point of the knife press against her flesh, and knew that he loved her.

Despite everything, he had come to care for his dowdy, stern-faced governess.

How she wanted to tell him she loved him too, with all her heart, but it was too late now.

She had underestimated the depths of Lord Hanover’s depravity, his vile need for retribution, and now she would pay the price.

―Excerpt of His Grace and Disfavour, by an anonymous author.

At first Pip had read the story with only half his mind engaged, the other half still lingering in the decadence of the previous night. Little by little, however, the fascinating saga pulled him in, and then the oddest prickling sensation tiptoed down his spine.

Foolishness , he told himself as he read on, devouring the text faster and faster as the story unravelled before him.

Don’t be utterly ridiculous , his mind insisted as echoes of the tale seemed to prick at his subconscious, yet there was truth here.

He felt it in his bones, knew with utter certainty that he was Viscount Amberson.

But why? Who had written this, and… and were they implying that Mrs Harris was Georgette?

He stood suddenly, staring down at the pamphlet with his heart thudding wildly. That was outrageous and wrong, and—

A knock at the study door jolted him from his thoughts.

“What?” he demanded crossly, raking a hand through his hair. He did not want interruptions right now, he needed to think.

Kerridge appeared, his expression wary. “Forgive me my lord, but—”

“Never mind the introductions, he knows who I am,” drawled an all-too-familiar voice.

Pip straightened at once as his father walked into the room.

Old habits died hard. Pip gaped at him, the story momentarily forgotten as he took in the sight of his usually immaculate sire looking just a little rumpled and travel-worn.

This was so extraordinary for Montagu, it could only speak of some dire event having overtaken him.

“Sir?” he said, so taken aback he could not think what else to say.

“I’ve had a very trying night,” Lord Montagu said tersely.

“The blasted carriage hit a pothole before we reached Monmouth and the damned axle broke. Poor Hanson warned me I was out of my mind to travel in the dark and I do not like being proven wrong, especially when I am in such a damned hurry. I was forced to put up at—I can’t call it an inn—an establishment that purported to lease rooms, while repairs were made, which seemed to take twice as long as it ought.

It was a vile experience, and I am not in the sunniest of tempers.

” Trying to overcome the shock of his father’s sudden appearance, Pip shook himself back to his wits.

“I am sorry for that, Father. My valet is at your disposal. I shall have a bath readied for you at once, but you must forgive me. Something of import has happened, or at least, I think it has, and I must beg your forgiveness, but I cannot speak—”

His father, omniscient as ever, stalked over to his desk and picked up a pamphlet. “Good God. Don’t tell me it’s only now sinking in? Does the poor young woman need to hit you over the head with the damned thing before you figure it out?”

Pip blinked. “Sir?”

Montagu sighed. “Your Mrs Harris is Miss Genevieve Hamilton. There, does that clarify things for you?”

Pip stared at his father, aghast. “But… But….”

“Where is she?” Montagu demanded, having no tolerance for Pip’s shock. He sounded angry and impatient and that, finally, roused Pip back to sense.

“This is none of your business,” Pip said, squaring his shoulders and looking his father in the eyes.

That alone was no easy task, for those cool silver eyes seemed to see everything he was, everything he had ever done, and made Pip feel about six years old again.

Reminding himself sternly that he was no such thing, he held his ground.

“Mrs Harris, or Miss Hamilton, or whoever the hell she is, is my problem, not yours, and for your information, I intend to marry her.”

His father’s expression, so stern and forbidding, relaxed a degree at this information. “Well, that’s the most sensible decision you’ve ever come to,” he said dryly. “And I know it’s none of my affair, you insolent pup. Do you think, however, I would be here if it were not urgent?”

His father had never interfered in his life before, even when he’d realised Pip was keeping his grandchild a secret from him. He owed his father an apology.

“I beg your pardon, sir—”

“Oh, stow it,” Montagu said irritably, shocking Pip with the rather cant expression. “I’m more concerned for your Mrs Harris’ safety. Where is she?”

“Her safety?” Pip repeated, a sudden hollow sensation opening up inside him. “But why—”

“Good Lord, Pip!” Montagu exclaimed in frustration.

“You would not believe the trouble that chit has caused with her story. There’s an angry mob outside the Duke of Sefton’s house demanding he produce his granddaughter.

Your mother and I were forced to leave under cover of darkness as reporters for every scandal sheet in town are demanding to know if my son and heir is hiding Miss Hamilton, and Wendover has been hounded out of London.

I’m very much afraid the devil will come here looking for her.

He’s been humiliated, and he’s a nasty piece of work at the best of times.

If she ran to avoid marriage to him—and, having read that story, I do not doubt that was the case—then I cannot blame her in the least.”

Pip digested this, his head whirling at the enormity of it all.

Mrs Harris, his daughter’s prickly governess of the past five years, was Miss Genevieve Hamilton, the vile Duke of Sefton’s granddaughter.

The woman he’d made love to, the woman he intended to marry, had kept this enormous secret all this time, and he’d never suspected a thing.

No, he realised. No, that wasn’t entirely true.

He had known something, had known there was more to her than she showed him.

That was why she had bothered him so, her presence at once so beguiling and yet aggravating, worrying at his mind like a wasp at a picnic.

“Where is she, Pip?”

Pip turned back to his father, seeing the concern in his eyes. “She took the carriage before I came down for breakfast to travel into Monmouth. Christmas shopping, apparently. Tilly is with her.”

Montagu’s jaw tightened. “Then there is no time to lose. How long ago did they leave?”

Pip glanced at the mantel clock. It was almost half-past two. “They ought to be back any time now.” He moved to the window as he heard wheels on gravel approaching the house. “They’re here,” he exclaimed with relief.

“Thank God,” Montagu said with a sigh, and followed Pip as he hurried to the door.

Heart pounding, Pip ran down the front steps to the carriage and yanked open the door before the footman could reach it. Inside, he found Tilly looking wan and miserable, her pretty face tear-streaked and blotchy.

“Papa!” she cried, and launched herself at him, throwing her arms about his neck and sobbing. “Papa, Papa!”

“It’s all right, darling,” he said, so breathless he could hardly speak. “I’ve got you. You’re quite safe, but where is Mrs Harris?”

“S-She left,” Tilly said through her tears, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “She’s n-not Mrs Harris, she’s Miss Hamilton.”

“I know, darling. It’s all right,” he soothed, and carried her inside as quickly as he could, suddenly aware the footmen were listening in with interest.

“It’s not all right,” Tilly said urgently, grasping at his coat, her eyes wide.

“There’s a horrid man coming here. Lord Wendover.

We overheard him when we were at the Crown and Thistle.

He was trying to find out where we lived but the innkeeper wouldn’t tell him because he was so rude.

She was scared of him because he means to hurt her, and said she must leave at once.

She said if she left, he would follow her and leave us alone. ”

“Damn the foolish woman!” Pip exclaimed angrily, making Tilly jump.

“Calm yourself, son,” Montagu said, reaching for Tilly, who slid into her grandfather's arms and held on tightly. “We’ll find her. Darling girl, did she say where she was going?”

“To the Marquess of Wrexham, her uncle,” she said, snivelling as Montagu fished a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hands.

“I told her to come home, I told her you would protect her from anyone, Papa, but she wouldn’t.

She was afraid you would be cross, and she said she must limit the scandal. ”

“Cross?” Pip said in outrage, as fear and frustration seethed beneath his skin.

“But you’re not cross, really, a-are you?” Tilly asked doubtfully. “She must have been hiding from the horrid man all this time, Papa, and she felt safe with us. That’s not her fault, is it?”

Pip ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath. “No, little bird. I’m not cross about that, only that she did not trust me. But you must not worry. I will find her and bring her home. I promise you.”

“You will?” Tilly said, brightening at once, for if her Papa said something, it must be true. She glanced at her grandfather, knowing for certain he would never, ever lie to her.

“We will,” Montagu agreed.

Pip sent his father an impatient glance, for there was no way he was allowing his sire to chase about the countryside for another day and night, or however long it took. Before he could make this observation, however, the sound of shouting came from the front door.

“I believe our uninvited guest is here,” Montagu said darkly, setting Tilly down and looking at her sternly. “You will stay here,” he told her, using his most formidable tone.