“She wants a word,” said Mr. Gillingham with a snort. “She thinks we’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Lulu managed to bite down the retort that they did. They were extorting from so many people, they barely had to work.

  Instead, she said demurely, “I only wish for a few minutes of your time.”

  She watched, heart racing, as the two men exchanged a glance. The Assembly Rooms had been the right place to accost them. The place was too public for them to do anything too—

  “Over here, then,” Mr. Gregory said, the unspoken conversation with Mr. Gillingham coming to a natural end. “Come on.”

  Lulu gasped. Gillingham had grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the main hall and across to a small alcove, partly hidden by a large fern.

  Far more private than she had intended.

  “Now,” Mr. Gregory said as Mr. Gillingham roughly released her arm. “What d’you want?”

  Trying desperately to gather her thoughts, Lulu began, “I wish to renegotiate—”

  “We don’t change our minds,” said Mr. Gregory sternly. “You should know that by now, Lucy.”

  “Unless of course, you’ve got something else to offer,” Mr. Gillingham said with a leer. “I would never say no to a kiss, Lucy. You know that.”

  Lulu swallowed the bile that rose at the very thought. The idea that she would permit Mr. Gillingham—

  “Consider it,” Mr. Gillingham breathed, stepping close and pinning her against the wall. His breath smelled terrible, his hands were on her waist.” I would be minded to consider a renegotiation if—”

  “Get your hands off me,” Lucy croaked, panic flooding her lungs.

  No one could see her. The music was loud, the cheering at the reel being danced overpowering all other speech. No one would hear her. She would be forced to—

  “Release Miss Finch or suffer the consequences,” said a dark voice.

  Lulu was suddenly released. The abrupt absence of Mr. Gillingham’s disgusting breath and clammy hands felt like being reborn. Air was rushing into her lungs, her head was pounding, and there stood—

  She could not believe it.

  “And who the hell are you?” snapped Mr. Gillingham to the tall gentleman standing by the fern. “Interrupting a man’s private business, that’s—”

  “Miss Finch, there you are,” said Duke of Chantmarle pleasantly, reaching out a hand. “I was looking for you.”

  Lulu did not hesitate. Determined as she had been, clearly there was no reasoning with these people—and now she wanted to be as far away from them as possible. Any caution she may have felt toward the strange duke had been diminished by their dinner a few nights before. Though she would never admit it, she had spent more than a little time since that evening thinking back on their conversation. The laughter they had shared. The secret the duke had spilled about why he acted the fool in company.

  He was not acting the fool now.

  “Chantmarle,” she said grateful, reaching out and taking his hand, rushing swiftly away from Mr. Gregory and Mr. Gillingham. “I-I thought—”

  “Let’s go,” said the duke meaningfully, glaring at the two men standing mulishly by the wall. “I see no men of honor here with whom to converse.”

  Lulu clung to his arm as the duke turned and marched out of the Assembly Rooms. Her mind was spinning so rapidly, she could barely perceive where they were going. All she could take in was Chantmarle. The strength of his arm, the comfort of his hand. The intoxicating scent of his musk, the power of his presence.

  Despite the hustle and bustle of the Assembly Rooms, the crowd parted. Whispers started, whispers Lulu was vaguely aware of.

  “—the Duke of Chantmarle—”

  “Who is that with him?”

  “Lucky woman . . .”

  Lucky. Yes, Lulu supposed she was lucky. If the duke had not happened to see her—

  “What,” the duke said heavily as they stepped down the Assembly Rooms steps to the pavement. “What in God’s name were you doing back with them? You told me yourself, they are dangerous!”

  Lulu swallowed and released the man’s arm. She had to. She was being swiftly overpowered by his mere presence.

  How did he do it? Was it simply part of being a duke? Was that how Chantmarle was able to affix her with such a stern and yet compassionate eye?

  “I . . .” Lulu hesitated. How on earth was she supposed to explain this?

  She certainly could not tell him the truth. No, the truth would be the death of her. Though she had never sought the man’s attention, she had to admit that being addressed so intimately by a duke was rather pleasant.

  Particularly when it was this duke.

  And all that regard he had for her, whatever it was, from wherever it had come . . . it would all disappear if he learned what she had done.

  “I’ll walk you home, Lucy,” said the duke sternly, offering his arm. “But I want you to promise me you won’t go near those men again.”

  Lulu was so distracted by his dominant orders, she found herself saying, “Lulu.”

  His arm was solid. Dependable. Warm. She took it and fell into step beside him before she really knew what she was doing.

  “Lulu?”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  The duke was grinning. “I think you just asked me to call you Lulu. Is that a family name?”

  Oh, bother. She should never have breathed in so deeply as he rescued her. She should have known her senses would betray her. He was deeply intoxicating at the best of times.

  No. No! She was not going to allow herself to think like that!

  “My family called me Lulu, yes,” Lulu said, grasping onto the only fact she knew she could share without disgracing herself. “I-I suppose you can, too.”

  Their footsteps were taking them down a street she did not know. It was far more impressive than any place she had ever lived, but she permitted the duke to guide her. Time with him, somehow, was never wasted.

  “In that case, I suppose you should call me Samuel.”

  Lulu looked up, horrified. “I can’t do that!”

  “Why not?” the duke countered. “It’s my name.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  How could she explain to a duke that it was impossible for her to speak so intimately like that with a man? With any man it would be scandalous. With a gentleman it would be outrageous. But a duke? Disgraceful!

  “I cannot call you Samuel,” she said firmly.

  She felt as well as heard him chuckle.

  “I suppose that would be particularly familiar,” he owned with a shrug. “But still. I don’t like the idea of you calling me “Your Grace” all the time. Not after . . . well, not at all.”

  This was a mistake, she knew. With her past, the last person in the world she should be associating with was a man who had a reputation to lose. All she needed was to lose her nerve and actually agree to call him Samuel! And yet . . .

  “What about Chantmarle?” she suggested shyly.

  Where had all this shyness come from? She was not the sort of woman to cower in a man’s presence!

  But the Duke of Chantmarle was no ordinary man. He did not make her cringe, nor hide away any of herself. In truth, she had been more open in her temper with him than with most people in her acquaintance.

  She had not thought it would matter. And now it did . . .

  “Chantmarle? I suppose that is a fair compromise,” the duke said with a chuckle as he turned left at a crossroads. “I suppose I shall have to be content with that. For now.”

  Heat blossomed within and she was grateful for the darkness of night. Hopefully Chantmarle would not notice.

  This was beginning to get out of hand. She couldn’t be meandering the streets of Edinburgh in the dark of night with a duke! No, she needed to thank the man, direct him to her rooms, then firmly say goodbye, Lulu told herself. And that would be an end to it. An end to an acquaintance she should never have had, and one such as she would never have again.

  She swallowed, and the knot in her throat momentarily disappeared. Then it returned.

  Well, it was not as though she had any other choice.

  “Thank you,” Lulu said awkwardly.

  Chantmarle raised an eyebrow. “For . . .”

  He was doing it on purpose, she thought irritably. Purposely misunderstanding her!

  “For rescuing me. From Gregory and Gillingham.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Chantmarle cheerfully. “I would have done it for any lady in distress. Any gentleman would.”

  Lulu’s shoulders slumped as she steered them down the next left. For any lady? Was she truly as insignificant as all that?

  That was the trouble, she thought fiercely, of allowing one’s thoughts to run away with one! There was absolutely nothing in his demeanor, his manners, or his conversation that should have allowed her to think that the Duke of Chantmarle saw her any differently to the maid who lit his fires.

  Would have done it for any lady, indeed!

  Well, I hope that teaches you a lesson, Lulu Finch, she told herself. There is no point feeling deflated. Chantmarle never promised you any—

  “But I am glad,” came Chantmarle’s quiet voice, “that I could do it for you.”

  Joy rushed into her heart to replace the despondency. Lulu caught his eye, a slow smile spreading across her face as she did so.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly,” Chantmarle said softly. “It was an honor. A privilege.”

  Warmth was spreading to the very ends of Lulu’s toes. A privilege! Perhaps there was some reason to hope, after all.

  Only as she nodded at the third right did Lulu realize what she had almost allowed herself to do. She had almost permitted herself to think of the Duke of Chantmarle as . . . well, as a prospect!

  “So tell me,” Chantmarle said easily as he allowed her to direct them. “Why is it that I keep finding you in their company anyway?”

  Lulu blinked. She had been too busy looking at the way his sideburns crept into the curls of his hair to pay attention. “Whose company?”

  “Gregory and Gillingham, of course,” he said softly. “Lulu, you know they are dangerous. You warned me about them. Why do you seek them out?”

  Looking at the pavement appeared to be the only way to keep her attention on her words. Even then, it was difficult. Chantmarle’s warm and sturdy arm under her hand was doing strange things to her concentration. Lulu was not entirely sure they were even walking in the right direction.

  What was this man doing to her?

  “I mean, there must be countless gentlemen, real gentlemen, in this city who would be eager for an acquaintance with you,” Chantmarle continued.

  Lulu gave him a teasing smile. “Was that a note of envy in your voice?”

  “Absolutely,” said Chantmarle, returning her grin. “What, you think I don’t have a vested interest in these questions?”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. He was such a—

  “Do you not have a brother or father who can tell you these things?” Chantmarle asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “No . . . no gentleman courting you?”

  Though her cheeks were assuredly pink, Lulu forced herself to meet his eye as they turned onto her street.

  “You are very curious, aren’t you?” she pointed out. “A very curious duke.”

  Chantmarle shrugged. “I am curious about you.”

  Despite herself, Lulu was unable to hold his gaze any longer. How did he do it? The moment she believed she had a hold of the conversation, that she had turned the focus back on him, he immediately twisted it so that she was once again under the microscope.

  A curious duke indeed, but that did not quell her own curiosity. What was an English duke doing here in Edinburgh? Did he not have friends, family? Was he so truly experiencing such a dearth of good conversation that he would befriend a strange woman?

  Lulu almost laughed. The poor man had no idea what he was getting entangled in.

  The thought had been a passing one, but as it settled into her heart, she knew she had to say something. She would warn anyone off Mr. Gregory and Mr. Gillingham. She had already done so with Chantmarle, but he had not heeded her, and Lulu could not live with herself if she did not warn him again. These were dangerous men. She had entangled herself too deeply, she would never truly recover from her connections to either of them. But that did not mean Chantmarle had to suffer the same fate.

  Lulu’s jaw tightened. She would not permit anyone, let alone a duke, to ruin their reputation because she had not sufficiently forewarned them. Particularly not Chantmarle. He was starting to become . . . special to her. Even if she could never admit it.

  “Chantmarle,” Lulu began softly. “Oh. Here we are.”

  They had arrived at her rooms.

  “This is where you live?” asked Chantmarle. “I shall have to remember that.”

  “You already had my address, you reprobate,” she pointed out with a frown. “When you invited me to that dinner.”

  The man’s grin was outrageous. “What a coincidence. Well, it’s nice to see it in the flesh, for when I return.”

  She glared. “And what precisely makes you think that you will ever be here again?”

  Chantmarle’s lazy smile was not supposed to make her stomach flip like that. “Why, to see you, of course.”

  Lulu took a deep breath. This was going to hurt her more than it would hurt him. Even if he would never know that. “Look—”

  “If you are attempting to warn me off, please don’t,” said Chantmarle quietly, dropping her hand but not stepping away. “I am accustomed to danger.”

  Lulu laughed dryly. “Not like this.”

  “I can look after myself,” Chantmarle said, lifting a hand to cup her cheek. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  She had intended to say something, anything, to convince him to keep his distance from her. She was dangerous, rotten goods, spoiled. Treacherous. But the sensation of his fingers on her cheek—it burned into her skin as nothing else ever had.

  “I warn you,” Lulu breathed, unable to break the connection, gazing deep into his dark eyes. “You shouldn’t get involved with me. With any of this.”

  Chantmarle chuckled as he smiled ruefully. “You say that, Lulu, like I can stay away.”

  Chapter Seven

  22 April 1811

  “Why did no one tell me I was—”

  “Well, you never dine out so early,” his butler said in a rush as they both careered down the stairs. “It’s only six o’clock, Your Grace, and—”

  Samuel groaned loudly as he tried to pull on his greatcoat inside out when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “I needed to be there at six o’clock, not leaving at—”

  “I am so sorry, Your Grace!” Fitzhugh was wringing his hands now, as if that could somehow change the time. “Next time, please inform me—”

  “I did—never mind,” Samuel snapped.

  There was no point in attempting to explain it. In truth, he had not given the servant a huge amount of detail, precisely because of the nature of the rendezvous. Other gentlemen, Samuel knew, would plan secret meetings with lovers. He, on the other hand . . .

  “Hat, hat, hat! Oh, blow it, I’ll go without,” he said with a weary sigh, wrenching open the door. “What is it?”

  He had halted, just for a moment, as his butler thrust something into his hands. It felt like paper.

  “A letter? From whom?”

  The butler shrugged helplessly. “I know not, Your Grace, it came with the afternoon post, and I thought—”

  “Fine, fine, I’ll take it with me,” said Samuel, chest heaving. He could not be late. If he missed it—Blakely had been very clear on when the meeting was to take place, and if he was going to have any hope in eavesdropping . . .

  “Shall I keep dinner warm for you, Your Grace, or—”

  “Eat the blessed thing yourself!” Samuel retorted with a laugh. “Oh, Fitzhugh, I am not truly angry—but I am late. Enjoy the dinner!”

  He did not wait for his servant to respond. Instead he slammed the door behind him and started to half walk, half run along the street.

  It was too bad. The information Blakely had sent that morning had been perfectly clear. There was going to be a meeting of some of Edinburgh’s most notorious ruffians that very evening, at six o’clock, at Deacon Brodies Tavern. All Samuel had to do was be there ahead of time, place himself somewhere in the vicinity, and he could eavesdrop on the entire thing.

  Except, of course, his butler had not informed him of the time when he had requested. Five o’clock had gone, completely ignored as Samuel had lost himself in thoughts of a certain young woman . . .

  “I warn you. You shouldn’t get involved with me. With any of this.”

  “You say that, Lulu, like I can stay away.”

  Samuel’s jaw tightened as he hurried along the street, taking a right turn. Lucy Finch was fast becoming a liability, one he could ill afford. There were still secrets about English supplies being fed to French troops. If they could not plug the leak, there was going to be increasing danger for the British in France.

  And the war, he had been told, was not going well.

  He had to get there quickly. Though he was late, perhaps there would still be somewhere he could hide.

  The streets of Edinburgh were crowded, but the people thinned as Samuel continued into the less reputable district. It was fortunate indeed that he had once met one of his informants at this tavern—he knew right where he was headed.

  The letter was still clutched in his hand. Samuel shoved it in a pocket. If it were truly important, he could read it when he arrived. First, he had to choose his spot.

  The place was absolutely packed. Evidently it had been payday for some of those in the city, for beer and ale were flowing. That was all to the good. The crowded noise and merriment was an excellent cover. So too was the coat he had chosen, one of his underfootman’s. No one would give him a second glance.

  “Two ales,” Samuel said, dropping the genteel tones his voice typically carried. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

  The landlord leered. “A lady friend?”