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T here were many kinds of filth in the world, and Major Crispin Taverston considered himself intimately acquainted with nearly all. Since most could be tidied away—one way or another—he no longer worried about dirtying his hands. Yet some things would not be easily cleansed.

This room, for example. The grime on the walls was thickly layered and its provenance could only be guessed at.

The sheet on the bed felt slimy against his skin, skin which could, admittedly, stand a bath.

The blanket was so flea-ridden he’d tossed it on the floor.

There was no basin of wash water and no pot to piss in.

The room stank of sweat and wet boots and sex.

He reached across the bed and patted the hip of the missy snoring beside him. “Lizzie.” He gave her a shake, and her eyelids peeled open.

“Yes, Milord,” she murmured sleepily. “What can I—” Her eyes grew huge. “Lawks!” She rolled over and sat up, pushing back lank strands of hair from her face and finger combing them. “It’s morning! The mistress will give me a basting!”

“Only daybreak. And I paid the night,” Crispin reminded her, peeved, though not with her.

She paused her ineffective grooming to give him a baffled look, as though she’d heard his words, but they made no sense. They probably didn’t.

He’d hired her for the full night because, after all, that was why he was here.

A more refined inn four miles up the road would have been clean and comfortable, but it lacked the primary amenity he sought.

His body had been serving him well recently and deserved its reward.

So, he’d bribed the stagecoach driver to make an extra stop.

Naturally he’d intended to make better use of the hours than sleeping fitfully and scratching at bedbug bites.

But the girl who called herself Lizzie, a common alias in her profession, was clearly exhausted.

Every time he’d considered waking her for another go, he’d thought better of it. Let her sleep.

The girl gave him a guilty half smile and sidled closer. “A quick tup? Before I be getting downstairs?”

In the dawn’s light, he could see the sallowness of her complexion, and her cow eyes didn’t have the same appeal as they’d had in the dingy candlelit dining room.

Crispin shook his head. It would take him another five hours to reach London.

And that assumed his brother had gotten his letter with directions to have his horse delivered to the stable at the inn where he should have stayed.

No doubt Mercury had had a more restful night than he did.

“Regretfully, no, lass. I have to be on my way.” He was anxious to get home. He had a family wedding to attend. Another family wedding. The last.

She looked alarmed. “Was it…was I…?

“Grand,” he assured her, though the experience had been far from memorable. Then he gave her a little gift by saying with feigned embarrassment, “I must’ve been more tired than I realized, sleeping like the dead.”

“Wore us both out, you did,” she said, then laughed, her laughter rough and coarse and forced.

Crispin climbed from his side of the bed and plucked his carefully folded clothes from the room’s single chair.

Lizzie rose also, seeking the shift and gaudy dress she’d discarded.

He concentrated on his task rather than watching her and risking arousal he hadn’t time to satisfy.

Her body had been pleasantly round and strong. That much he did recall.

He knew why he’d chosen Lizzie out of the three serving maids working in the dining room.

The prettiest had served him the inedible slop the innkeeper passed off as dinner and he held a grudge, while Lizzie had brought him the cider he had asked for after the pretty one brought him the ale he had not.

The third girl he did not even look at twice.

She was far too young to be in such a godawful place.

He slipped his shirt over his head, tied his hair back with a bit of broken bootlace, then sat on the chair to pull on his stockings and trousers.

Everything he wore smelled bad. The room stank.

His body offended his own nostrils. Tonight, he would be at 8 Grosvenor Square, the London townhome of the Earl of Iversley—his brother Jasper.

There, he’d slough off the filth. For a while.

Perhaps forever. The war was over. Napoleon had been defeated. It still felt unreal. He wondered for the thousandth time, what did that mean for Major Crispin Taverston?

He pulled on his worn boots, then stood and stomped his feet firmly into them. What would it mean? What would peace mean? He hated war, of course; it was unfortunate that he was so bloody good at it.

There were options, of course. Life was full of options. But never before had he felt suspended amongst them with no ability to choose.

Crispin fished half a crown from his purse, then laid it on the chair. “Thank you.”

Lizzie gave him a look like he was soft in the head. “For what?”

Crispin shrugged, tossed his red uniform jacket across his shoulder, grabbed his battered knapsack, and left.

*

The road from Lizzie’s nondescript little village to Maidstone, with its posting station and decent inn, was flat and more or less straight.

He walked the four miles, knapsack on his back, in a little over an hour.

By the time he reached Maidstone, his morning-after melancholy had dissipated.

Mercury was in the stable, just as he should be.

For a full minute, Crispin simply stared at the glossy brown hide, wide chest, graceful neck.

Then a smile bloomed on his face. Zooks!

What a capital horse. He possessed the best features of his Arabian ancestors—the handsome delicate muzzle, small, pointed ears, large, intelligent eyes.

And if there was a swifter horse, he’d never ridden one.

He gave a low whistle, and the stallion’s ears perked. He whistled again, and Mercury’s head rose. Seeing Crispin, he let out a whinny before rearing back and kicking at the stall.

“Whoa, whoa, there,” Crispin said, laughing. He hurried to fling open the door. Mercury pranced toward him. Fully aware of his own idiocy, he threw his arms around the horse’s neck and hugged him. “I’m home, you great beast. Or will be, as fast as you can get me there.”

He called for the stable hand to fetch Mercury’s tack, then waved him away to do the honors himself. Saddling Mercury. He could not stop smiling. He gestured for the boy to come closer again, and pressed a few shillings into his hand.

“Ach, no, sir. The fee’s paid.”

Oh? “You keep it then.” The boy’s eyes lit with disbelief and pleasure.

Of course, Jasper would have taken care of the stabling fee.

Or rather, Benjamin would have seen to it.

Benjamin Carroll, Jasper’s supremely competent steward.

Benjamin their soon-to-be brother-in-law .

Crispin’s smile burst forth once more. Benjamin and Olivia!

He’d thought there was something in the air back at Christmastime, but he hadn’t been home long enough to sniff out what.

Crispin backed Mercury away from the boy and mounted, settling into his seat while letting his horse dance about. The stallion’s eagerness to run matched his own.

And good for Olivia! There was no better man than their old friend Benjamin, lowborn though he might be.

Crispin snickered. He would have liked to have been there to see how Jasper handled their little sister’s unconventional courtship.

For the full tale, he’d have to ask Vanessa, Jasper’s brave-hearted wife.

Or Reg, their younger brother. Or Georgiana, the duke’s daughter who’d chosen Reg over the chance to be Jasper’s countess.

He imagined they’d all been secretly rooting for Benjamin.

He guided Mercury to the road where he kept him to a walk to warm his muscles before nudging him into a trot.

His grin suddenly felt false. It dropped away, and he blew out a sigh. His siblings had all found their life mates. His baby sister would be married in two days. His younger brother now had a son of his own. It was wonderful, but…

Homecoming meant something different when the Taverston siblings were dispersed into three different homes. Four—if he leased himself a set of rooms in London, or moved to his cottage in the lake district. If he even meant to stay in England.

The devil. What would homecoming mean for Major Crispin Taverston?

*

Miss Camellia Harrington disliked wearing black.

She was convinced it made her look like a crow, despite the fact that an appalling number of well-meaning but tactless individuals had told her she looked very nice in it.

One unthinking old woman told her she should always wear black, a particularly cruel statement, since at this point in Camellia’s life, it felt as though she always had.

Worn black. Mourned. She pushed away the thought: and always would .

Of course, she might wear half mourning, gray or lavender or some such.

Her father had been gone almost a year, and dear Mama had been gone for three.

But Camellia was superstitious enough to fear that if she dared throw off full mourning, Fate would ricochet it right back at her.

And although she knew it was improbable that her fashion choices would doom her poor brother Neville…

It didn’t matter how she looked. No one would be looking.

Besides, there were more important things to spend her fast-dwindling inheritance on than fashionable modistes and fine dresses.

Or London-made bonnets, gloves, shoes, and fans.

Or the various Theaters-Royal. Or lectures.

Or, Camellia sighed, the Temple of the Muses, Mr. Lackington’s legendary bookshop.