Amy skulked through the shrubbery. She parted the foliage and peered at the churchyard a short distance away. The sturdy gravestones dotted the level terrain like silent sentries, guarding the dead.

She shivered at the morbid atmosphere, searched the landscape for a sign of the sordid marquis. She had followed the man in the hopes of learning more about him and his unseemly interludes, but she wasn’t likely to uncover anything scandalous in the quiet parish. She sighed, shifting from her crouching position, her legs cramped. She’d tracked him thus far; she thought. She’d wait a few minutes more before declaring the day a failure and skirting off.

Amy spied the deserted hallowed grounds with growing impatience. She had watched the marquis pass through the church gates. She had slunk after him shortly thereafter, but she was having trouble locating the man now.

She moved stealthily through the bushes. After searching the entire churchyard with her eyes, she realized the marquis wasn’t there and huffed.

Where had the man disappeared?

At length, she heard soft murmuring. She stooped as she approached the wooded enclave, and peered through the leaves at the patch of land set aside from the churchyard. She counted a few headstones there—and the marquis.

He hunkered beside a monument, speaking softly. As he stroked the cold, gray stone his voice deepened, darkened. An almost wretched blathering passed between his lips as if the man was in distress and needed attention.

Amy chewed on her bottom lip, wishing him an apoplexy, but she quickly quashed the wicked thought, for the marquis hadn’t ruined her after witnessing her tryst with Edmund, and for that he deserved some consideration, she supposed. She glanced at the church steeple, shadowed by the late-afternoon sun. Was the parson inside the holy dwelling today? If not, she’d have to dash toward the nearest village to fetch assistance.

She looked back at the hunched figure. The marquis had quieted. He scraped his fingernails along his scalp and grasped his sandy brown hair.

He was weeping

Amy was disarmed. She stared, transfixed, at the haunting spectacle. The man was such a cold beast. How did he keep such heavy feelings concealed? Where did he keep them? But the grief that poured from his soul convinced her the black-hearted devil had a heart pressed somewhere deep within his being. It was a wounded heart, and she empathized with the mysterious man for a moment.

After a thorough atonement with the body in the grave, he righted himself. Quietly he vacated the grounds and returned to the church courtyard where his coach was stationed.

As soon as Amy heard the wheels crackling over the pebbled road, she emerged from her hiding spot and slowly approached the tombstone. It was a simple, rounded marker with two doves engraved on the façade.

She squatted, touched the rough surface, weathered with age. She brushed her fingers across the birds, symbols of peace. She next pressed her fingertips into the crevices that marked the name, the letters vaguely familiar to her. She was learning to read. She traced her fingers over an R and a U. Next she fingered a D…but she wasn’t able to spell out the rest of the name.

The dates she deciphered as 1791–1811. The deceased was twenty years of age. Not a lost child, then. The marquis had never wed, so it wasn’t his spouse interred in the earth. The occupant was too young to be an aged parent. A sibling, perhaps? No, the marquis was an only child, like her. Who then?

Amy made the sign of the cross and lifted off her haunches. She approached the small church. She stepped inside the ancient structure and was greeted with the pungent aroma of burning tallow candles. The rows of pews seated about forty parishioners, she estimated. She caressed the wood seats, skipped her fingers over them as she stepped down the aisle.

A chill gripped her bones as she imagined her wedding march, the sinister groom waiting for her at the end of a similar aisle, his eyes cold, biting, filled with rancor…despair.

“Good day,” she called out. “Is there someone here?”

A young curate, with a mop of curly brown hair, appeared from a small office behind the pulpit. “Good day, miss. How can I be of service?”

Amy smiled. She was dressed in a simple white dress, respectable, but otherwise plain, her long hair plaited and secured with a ribbon. She wanted to protect her ducal heritage. It wasn’t right for her to be traipsing through the countryside without an escort, and she didn’t want word to reach the marquis that she was snooping into his private affairs.

“I need some information,” she said. “There’s a grave marker with a pair of doves just beyond the church grounds. I’d like to know more about the deceased.”

The Church of England maintained records of births and deaths and marriages, so the information shouldn’t be too hard to ascertain, she thought.

The curate frowned. “That’s unconsecrated land, miss.”

“Unconsecrated?”

“The land isn’t blessed; it isn’t sacred.” He smoothed his clerical vestments. “It’s where we bury the suicides or the unbaptized, the nonconformists.”

Her pulses leaped. “I see.”

“Why do you want such information?”

He sounded ominous. Amy suspected the pious curate was affronted by her unbecoming questioning, and she refrained from making any more inquiries.

“I’ve made a mistake, is all.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Good day.”

Quickly she scurried away from the holy house—and the curate’s sanctimonious stare. She wandered the churchyard for a brief time, trolled the grounds as she assessed the news that the corpse was laid in unconsecrated ground.

Who was buried there?

She would have to find some other way to learn the name on the headstone, the identity of the deceased—and why the bones were so important to the marquis.

Amy headed for her own stationed vehicle; it was a short distance away and concealed. As she traveled the pebbled road, she detected the faint shuffling of feet and glanced over her shoulder.

Two figures ambled down the road at a distance.

She eyed the bodies, those of two men. Farmers, perhaps. Or tradesmen. She looked away again…but a niggling suspicion hounded her thoughts and she examined the figures once more.

“Oh, bullocks!”

Amy took off running.

 

“You eat like a pig.”

Edmund glowered at his brother, standing in the door frame. “Sod off, Quincy.”

The pup entered the room and rounded the dining table before he settled into a chair, scratching his chin. “What’s wrong, Eddie?”

He took a bite from the roasted lamb, mumbled, “Nothing.”

“If you’re stuffing your belly, something’s wrong. Care to tell me about it?”

Edmund chewed his food in silence.

“It’s Amy, isn’t it?”

He gnashed his teeth.

“And her pending marriage to the marquis?”

He slammed his fist into the table, rattled the dishes. “I’m about to flatten your nose, pup.”

“That won’t really make you feel better.”

“It might,” he growled.

Quincy raised an amused brow. After a short silence, he pressed on with “Are you going to fight for the lass?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“She’s betrothed to Gravenhurst.” The blood in his skull pounding, he gritted, “What am I supposed to do about it? Duel with the marquis? He’s not dishonored her good name.”

Quincy snorted. “No one duels anymore, Eddie.”

“What did you mean, then?”

He shrugged. “Break the engagement.”

“Why?”

“You care for her, admit it.”

Edmund stiffened at the provocative suggestion, girded his muscles against the rising pressure in his chest, the unfilled longing. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

I have to marry him, Edmund. It would disgrace my father’s good name if I refused to wed the marquis.

“Shut up, Quincy.”

He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “You don’t feel you deserve her, do you?”

Edmund mustered a surly expression. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand better than you think. I’ve lived in their shadows, too. Breaking away from the past isn’t easy, I know. But you have a chance to make a new start for yourself with Amy, and if you don’t take it, it’s your own damn fault.”

Edmund humphed and stared at his plate, feeling less hungry. He sucked the meat’s juices off his fingers just as the butler appeared in the door frame and announced in his classical, brusque manner, “Lady Amy.”

Edmund bristled. Slowly he lifted his gaze, set it upon the piquant lass as she stepped into the room, draped in fine white linen, her fair hair plaited in a charming fashion. She was so damn lovely. In her presence, he was sentient of his every defect—and his every desire to be a better man. It was a stupid, wistful desire.

“Hullo, Amy,” from Quincy.

Edmund firmed his jaw, feeling less hospitable. “What are you doing here, Amy?”

She was pale. She possessed light features, but her skin seemed even more pallid, iridescent in the sparkling sunlight.

He demanded roughly, “What’s happened?”

“I’m being followed,” she said, breathless.

The brothers exchanged knowing glances.

Quincy bounded to his feet. “I’ll take a look outside.”

“Be careful,” she beseeched.

Quincy smiled at her before he and the butler departed from the dining room in brisk strides.

Edmund wiped his mouth, his fingers in the napkin; he lifted to his feet. With steady footfalls, he approached the trembling woman, resisting the impulse to draw her into his arms, comfort her.

“Did you recognize the men, Amy?”

“Yes, they’re the same two assailants from the Pleasure Palace.” She dropped her reticule on the table. “They must have discovered my identity as Zarsitti. They’ll ruin me, Edmund!”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” he said darkly.

“What else is there?”

“Kidnapping? Death?”

She snorted. “They want money, I’m sure of it. A bribe. I’m not Zarsitti anymore; they can’t collect the hundred-pound bounty on my head, but they can blackmail me into giving them the lost amount.”

She circled the table in a fretful gait. He spied her anxious mannerisms, heard her harried breaths. She was working herself into a frenzy. If he embraced her, he’d smother her fussy movements…but he’d ignite an unquenchable fire in his belly, too.

He said sharply, “Why don’t you just pay them off and be done with it?”

“And where am I going to get a hundred pounds?”

“From your father.”

“I can’t go to my father.” She knotted her fingers. “I can’t confess my past!”

“I’ll give you the bloody money.”

She stilled, looked at him with wide green eyes. “You’d do that? Even after…?”

“Last night?” he said roughly.

She flushed. “Do you hate me?”

He breathed slowly through his nose. “You lied to me, Amy.”

“I never lied to you.”

“Aye, you did.” He closed the door and folded his arms across his chest. “You had no business coming to me in the park, giving yourself to me when you were promised to another man.”

He choked on the last word, a wretched truth.

Amy munched on her bottom lip. “I wanted to come to you in the park. I wanted to be with you, Edmund.”

The quiet confession disarmed him, upset his moody disposition. He quelled the rampant need to touch her, taste her. She looked at him with such hopeless longing, he very nearly crossed the room and took her in his arms for a savage kiss.

I want you too, Amy.

He smothered the unfit impulse. She was a duke’s daughter. He was a pirate’s son. If desire burned between them, the damnable heat was moot.

“I’ll fetch the blunt.”

“Wait!” She circled the room again, brandished her hands. “The assailants haven’t approached me with any demands. What am I supposed to do with the money?”

The sound of her swooshing petticoats rattled his sensitive senses even more. “What do you want from me, then? Do you want me to kill the blackguards?”

She paused and gasped. “I’m not asking you to commit murder…not yet.”

He looked at her with a wry expression. “Then why did you come here?”

“I need your help. You have a friend, a Bow Street Runner. Can he look into the matter for me? Arrest the men?”

“You’d prefer a stranger’s help to mine?” he said tightly.

“You trust your friend, so I trust him, too.”

The stiffness in his muscles loosened, and he warmed at the thought that the woman believed in him, trusted him.

She said quietly, “Will you help me?”

He gazed into her eyes, so imploring. He might never stand beside her in society as her social equal, but he would always stand behind her as a friend. “Yes.”

She sighed. “Thank you.”

“What about your fiancé?”

She hardened. “What about him?”

“Why didn’t you ask him for assistance?”

She grabbed a chair, crushed the wood between her fingers. “I’m not very fond of the marquis.”

“Trouble, Amy?”

“Yes,” she bit out. “I have to marry him, the lout.”

He stared at her, confounded. It was the ambition of every chit in society to snag a titled husband, even if he was a lout, and her betrothal to the marquis assured her position within the ton.

“What’s going on, Amy?”

She stroked her fingers across the chair’s ornate headpiece. “I have to marry the marquis…but I don’t want to be with him.”

Gravenhurst was a bloody peer of the realm, though. He offered her respectability and security and every other social advantage that she had longed for since being in the rookeries. Was she really displeased with such an advantageous match?

“Why?” he demanded.

“I don’t like him,” she said in a flat voice. “We don’t suit.”

“Are you sure, Amy?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she snapped, still rubbing her fingers across the chair’s headpiece in a mindless fashion. “I don’t want to be with the marquis.”

Who do you want to be with, then?

He’d almost asked her the daft question. In truth, it didn’t matter whom she set her cap on, for he would never be one of her suitors. He was a former pirate. He wasn’t good enough for the woman.

“Cry off,” he suggested.

“I can’t.” She balled her fingers around the chair. “It’s complicated, Edmund. I’ve been away from society for so long, folks view me with suspicion. A respectable match will assure my standing in good society, but if I cry off, I’ll disgrace my parents, especially my father, who made the betrothal contract. I’ll be branded a jilt, too.”

“I understand,” he said gruffly, her words sinking into his skin like sharpened teeth. He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m sorry you’re unhappy, lass.”

She quieted and shrugged. “I might not be for very long.”

“Do you intend to poison your fiancé?”

“No.”

“I won’t breathe a word of it, I promise.”

She huffed. “I’m not going to poison him.”

“Pity.”

She glared at him. After a short pause, she said, hesitant, “I have another idea.”

That she was scheming to be rid of the marquis livened his heart, warmed his blood, and while some other coxcomb might woo her one day, he’d enjoy the subterfuge for a time—even if it offered him false hope. “What is it?”

“If the marquis’s reputation is publicly tarnished, my father will break the betrothal contract; he’ll insist I not marry the lord, and no one will think ill of me for obliging him. After all, I can’t be expected to wed an unrespectable gentleman.”

He snorted at her mettle. She’d acquired the manipulative traits of every other gentlewoman in society, so her marriage to the marquis seemed a pointless front to Edmund; she was a proper lady.

“And how do you intend to tarnish his reputation?”

“I can make a past indiscretion public. Anonymously, of course. Once the tale’s printed in the scandal sheets, I’m free.”

“Oh?”

“I know it sounds hypocritical. I lived as Zarsitti for three years; I’ve my own past indiscretions to hide, but I can’t wed him. Besides, he’s a man. A marquis! He’ll endure the gossip without discomfort.”

“I’m not judging you, Amy.”

“You judged me last night,” she countered with spirit, her green eyes bright. “You thought me a selfish harlot, admit it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles taut. “I was angry with you.”

She humphed. “Well, I’m not, you know.”

He looked at her bottom lip, pouting. “I know.” After a short pause: “Well, what’s the indiscretion?”

She lowered her voice. “I’m not sure. I followed him today.”

“Where?”

“A small churchyard on the outskirts of Town. It’s also where I first spotted the attackers. There’s a grave there with a pair of doves etched into the marker and the letters RUD.”

There was a growing warmth in his belly. “You’re learning to read?”

“I am, but I’ve still more to learn.” She pushed a lock of loose hair behind her ear. “The deceased is twenty years of age and he or she is buried in unconsecrated ground.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “The grave means a lot to the marquis.”

“And you hope to unearth some salacious gossip about it?”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she contended, her cheeks a deep rose. “But I don’t see any other way out.”

He stroked the back of his head, disorderly thoughts stomping through his skull. “Fine. Let me take care of it.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “The grave?”

“The grave. The bandits. Everything.”

“Edmund—”

Quincy entered the dining room; he opened the door without rapping on the wood, breathless, as if he’d sprinted through the streets.

“Anything?” from Edmund.

“It’s clear.” Quincy then glanced at Amy. “You’re safe.”

She sighed. “For now.”

And always.

Edmund turned toward his brother. “Take her home, Quincy.”

The pup nodded.

Amy gathered her reticule, her eyes alert, probing. “What are you going to do, Edmund?”

“First, I’m going to muzzle the hounds chasing after you.”