“Yes. That.”

  Adelaide stood, shaking out her skirts. “Have you ever known me to worry about propriety, Gwen? It shall be too warm in the stables, and the duke requires a decent night’s rest if he’s to keep up with me.”

  Clayborn would wager his entire fortune that it was not warm in the stables. Not with the wicked chill that pervaded this full tavern every time the door opened.

  “Ahh,” Gwen said as though she’d been silly not to think of it herself. “Quite right. Far too warm for sensitive aristocrats.”

  “I’m not sensitive,” he said.

  “Nonsense. All aristocrats are sensitive.” Adelaide turned to the other woman, her gaze firm. “You’ll take care of his carriage?”

  Gwen was already moving for the bar, where the boy she’d called Wei stood, ready for his next instructions. Clayborn looked to Adelaide. “What’s wrong with my carriage? It’s a new barouche.”

  “Mmm, and handsome,” she said, lifting his plate from the table and shoving it into his hands. “Made for speed in town, not strength out here. And emblazoned with a ducal seal.”

  “Of course it is,” he said. “It is owned by a duke.”

  She raised a brow. “Should I kneel in reverence?”

  He bit his tongue at the teasing words. At the image they summoned—wildly inappropriate. Not to mention unwelcome, considering her sharp tongue.

  Don’t think of her tongue.

  “Dukes don’t sleep in haylofts. You shall share my room. And we shall retire now.” He did not follow as she lifted her own plate and made for the rear stairway. When she noticed, she turned back, the hood of her cloak hiding her eyes as she prompted, “Your Grace?”

  The title shook him free. He straightened his spine. Something had changed, and she was hiding it from him. He considered the tavern, finding nothing amiss. A newcomer had taken a seat at the bar, back to them. The farmer and his beauty were growing more indecent by the moment. The trio of young women in the corner were laughing and shouting for ale.

  She shook her head, looking to Gwen. “It’s too warm down here.”

  Gwen nodded. “You know how fires are, impossible to keep a place comfortable.”

  “It’s not at all warm in here,” he said, feeling as though he was in a stage performance without his lines.

  “That is how people sometimes feel when they are extremely warm,” Adelaide said, spinning away from the table. “They mistake it for cold.”

  “That’s the opposite of what happens,” he said. “People mistake cold for heat. Take their clothes off and die of exposure.”

  “The man’s talking of removing his clothes, Adelaide. You’d best get him upstairs before he offends the whole place,” Gwen interjected.

  That was an impossibility, he was sure. Although he shouldn’t be discussing clothing within earshot of women. It simply wasn’t done.

  None of this was done, come to think of it.

  He froze. No matter what games he played, he remained the Duke of Clayborn. Which meant that when something was not done, it was not done by him.

  Adelaide barely turned, her face shadowed by the edge of her hood. Hidden. From what? From whom? Someday, he’d have a chance to look at this woman in full daylight, without barriers between them, and ask her questions she would answer.

  “Now, Duke.”

  He blinked, unaccustomed to receiving orders. “Now?”

  “Now,” she said softly, before she was gone, disappearing into the crowd, toward the stairs leading up to the rooms of the inn.

  He shouldn’t be doing any of this.

  Shouldn’t be eating with her, or conversing with her, or following her from inn to inn.

  And he certainly shouldn’t be following her across a taproom, to a staircase that would take him up to private rooms.

  Room. A single, private room. And bed.

  But that damn vision was back. That bed. Adelaide in it with her hair spread out in silken waves. And it was difficult to refuse an opportunity to see it made real. Certainly, he would refuse it. Just as soon as he found the words.

  Just as soon as he was through imagining it.

  Except there were more people in the tavern than he’d initially thought, and she had already disappeared, expecting him to follow.

  No, came a whisper at the back of his mind. Not disappeared.

  Fled.

  Which meant someone was chasing her. Someone other than himself.

  And he couldn’t have that.

  Chapter Six

  When they reached the top of the rear stairs of the Hawk and Hedgehog, Adelaide told herself her heart was pounding because of the possibility of discovery below.

  Alfie Trumbull hadn’t built one of the largest criminal gangs in London without knowing a thing or two about tracking people outside the city. If a peer was looking for a less than savory solution to a problem, The Bully Boys would handle it—for a hefty price.

  Watching her father build his empire had inspired Adelaide to bring the idea of a network of safe taverns to Duchess and the Belles. Now, more than twenty called the Duchess of Trevescan a patron, and were serviced by Mithra Singh and her crew of brewers and messengers.

  The man asking questions below—whether he worked for Alfie or not—had unsettled Gwen, and when she’d mentioned they were asking the same questions Adelaide had, the message was clear. The man in the tavern was hunting Helene and Jack, just as Adelaide was. What he did not have was Adelaide’s network of scouts, and the knowledge that the pair were two hours north.

  Adelaide, on the other hand, now knew that she and Clayborn weren’t simply racing each other to Gretna; they were racing Havistock’s hired men. Any tracker worth his salt would know that Helene came packaged with John Carrington, brother to the Duke of Clayborn. And so Clayborn had to stay out of sight, too, lest the men chasing Helene sniff him out.

  That, and if he were found with her, it would be too easy to connect her to the Matchbreaker.

  Honestly, aristocrats made everything more difficult.

  Especially aristocrats like the Duke of Clayborn, who drew all attention with his broad shoulders and the way he carried himself—as though the entire world would bend to his will if he ordered it.

  Gwen would feed the scout, water him, and tell him the truth—that there hadn’t been a free room at this particular inn since the morning, and she’d seen no couple come through, hurrying to Gretna Green. In the stables, the seal on the duke’s carriage had already been muddied, ensuring that no one would notice it in the dark.

  Good Lord. The man couldn’t even travel discreetly.

  And he thought he could blend.

  Her heart again, thumping in her chest as she reached the top of the stairs and turned toward her room, tucked away from the rest of the guests. This time, Adelaide told herself, it was likely due to exertion. She hadn’t eaten much that day, and she was tired from the drive.

  It most definitely was not her companion.

  Nor was it the fact that, when the door closed behind them with a quiet snick, they were completely alone, with no fear of being discovered.

  At first glance, the room appeared ordinary, ready for any passing traveler who happened by. But as in all inns supported by Duchess, there was little ordinary about it, directly above the posting inn’s dining room, complete with a large window that offered a clear view of the drive.

  The room, like twenty others in taverns across Britain, was never offered to passing travelers, unless that traveler arrived with the introduction of The Duchess herself . . . or the traveler was one of Duchess’s trusted lieutenants.

  Adelaide could have arrived long after the Duke of Clayborn darkened the door of the Hawk and Hedgehog, and he still would have been left to the stables.

  As he should have been that night.

  Alone, she would have stayed in the taproom, invisible. And even if she were noticed, she had no doubt that she could hide—stay to the safe places, trust that tavern owners deep into Scotland would happily throw anything that came for her—even The Bully Boys—off her scent, keeping her unseen.

  The Duke of Clayborn could not hide, however. He was a stallion in a herd of sheep. The moment he was noticed, anyone looking for Lady Helene would know they were on the right path, which would make everything else more difficult, and so Adelaide had no choice. She had to keep him close.

  That was the only reason she’d invited him up.

  Inside the room, she removed her cloak, hanging it on a hook on the far wall, taking the plate from his hand as he moved to do the same. After setting the food on a nearby table, she turned to find him standing back to the door. “Are you not hungry?”

  “No.”

  She shrugged one shoulder and lifted a roasted parsnip from her plate. Biting into the delicious vegetable, she chewed for a bit. “I would have thought you’d prefer privacy for a meal.”

  “Not like this. Not with you.”

  She was a mistake.

  Adelaide tried not to be offended by the words. “By all means, then, Duke. You may return to the taproom.” He remained silent and unmoving, and she added, “I, for one, am going to eat. It’s been a long day—longer even, for you. I suggest you do the same.”

  Lifting her plate, she perched on the bench at the window behind the table, looking through the rain-streaked glass to the drive, empty of stable boys and travelers. They’d be lucky if the roads were passable in the morning. “If you think to insult me with your lack of companionship, I assure you, it is not possible. I have made a lifetime of eating alone, and on the fly.”

  And with that, she returned to her pie and took an enormous bite, wondering if the duke had ever seen a woman eat outside of a formal dining room before that evening.

  “Why?”

  She swallowed the delicious food and spoke to her plate. “It speaks!”

  “Shelley again,” he grumbled.

  She did look at him then, curious. “Again?”

  “Why have you made a lifetime of eating alone?”

  Adelaide did not like the tone of the question. She might have been alright with it if it had had some kind of pity in it, as though he thought less of her for it. That might have activated her pride and preservation. She wouldn’t have blinked if it had been full of distaste, as though being alone were a failing. But instead, it was without judgment at all. Just . . . a question.

  And it activated something that Adelaide loathed.

  Shame.

  “I don’t mind it,” she said.

  “Alright.”

  “I don’t,” she insisted, as though she had something to prove. “I am used to doing things alone. I prefer it, honestly.”

  He was watching her carefully, and though she searched for it, she could not find judgment in his attention.

  She shrugged and forked another bite of pie. “Eating alone is preferable to sharing a meal before being cast out in the cold. Alone, there is no transaction. You never fear you will not measure up.”

  A long silence fell—long enough for Adelaide to grow embarrassed, so she busied herself with her food. After what seemed like an eternity, he came off the wall and crossed the room, joining her, taking several bites in silence before he said, “I find it difficult to believe anyone would think you do not measure up.”

  The heat of embarrassment turned to heat of a different kind. “You have to say that. It is my room or the stables for you.”

  When he smiled, she liked it too much. Enough to stop whatever this was in its tracks. “At any rate, I have plenty of meals with other people. With friends. I’ve been to dinners with you, even. Though you likely do not remember.”

  “Of course I remember.” That was a different tone altogether. Affront. Irritation. Offense.

  “I—” she started and stopped. “I am surprised. You were not exactly polite to me.”

  “Miss Frampton,” he said, and she couldn’t help her scoff at the formality, considering they were in a bedchamber at a posting inn miles from anywhere. Formality had rather flown out the window. “I stopped you from making yourself a powerful enemy—Lord Coleford was a dangerous man.”

  She laughed. “You think I did not know that?”

  “I know you knew it. I have always suspected you are the reason he will spend the rest of his days in Newgate.”

  “The man murdered several of his wives. That is why he will spend the rest of his days in Newgate.”

  “Thanks to you and your . . . What do you call yourselves?”

  She hesitated, not liking the way he noticed her. She wasn’t used to it. “I don’t know—to whom are you referring?”

  “I’ve seen you,” he said. “That night, at the dinner, there were only three of you. Lady Imogen was not there. But often, there are four of you. And then, last night, it occurred to me there might be more.”

  There were more. Duchess. Imogen. Sesily. Maggie. The others. “My friends.” Scotland Yard called them the Hell’s Belles. The papers had any number of names for them. The gossamer gang. Crinoline chaos. Muslin mayhem.

  “They aren’t like any friends I’ve ever met,” he said. “They seem like more. The kind of friends who can end an earl on a whim.”

  “It wasn’t a whim,” she said, knowing she shouldn’t get close to acknowledging his theory. Knowing she risked more than was reasonable—more than herself.

  “No, I don’t imagine it was. I imagine it was well planned. Quietly,” he said. “No pretty parliamentary speeches necessary.”

  “Quiet until we must be loud enough to make change,” she agreed. She met his gaze. “Loud enough for you, though.”

  This man, who saw everything. Who noticed everything.

  Who noticed her.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” he said, something like admiration in his eyes, and she believed him. Even though she shouldn’t.

  He was dangerous.

  “I’m not sure I understand the full scope of it, anyway.”

  “It is friendship,” she said, firmly. Adelaide had never spoken to anyone about her friends, and she shouldn’t want to. Shouldn’t want him to understand. Still . . . “They were the first people to make me feel . . . not alone. I barely suit with them—I’m not titled like Duchess, not rich like Sesily, not . . . well . . . no one is really like Imogen.”

  “Lady Imogen is rather like a helter-skelter.”

  “She’s quite brilliant.” She smiled, thinking of her madcap friend.

  “One does not preclude the other,” he said, and there was a half smile in his own voice.

  Resisting the urge to say more, Adelaide cleared her throat and adjusted her spectacles. “I don’t know what you think you’ve noticed.”

  A secret smile played across his lips. “I’ve noticed that when powerful men fall, you’re often nearby.”

  Of course he had. “Does that not worry you? You are a powerful man.”

  He watched her for a moment before answering. “I am not worried. But I think that if I were, I would have good reason to be, as matchbreaking is not the most dangerous thing you do, by far, Miss Frampton.” He added, “Though you are currently racing across Britain, alone, to do just that.”

  “Not alone,” she said without thinking. When the words were out, she flushed, dipping her head and taking another bite of food, knowing that he watched her carefully. Ignoring the enjoyment that threatened under his scrutiny.

  “Shall I tell you what else I think?” he said, continuing when she nodded. “I don’t think you are chasing them to matchbreak. My brother might be an ass at times, and he could certainly be called stupid at others, but he would never hurt Helene.” He did move, then, as though his certainty propelled him toward her. “And I think you know it.”

  She swallowed her surprise. “What would make you think that?”

  One of his dark brows rose. “I pay attention, Adelaide Frampton. And when you heard my brother and Lady Helene were headed from London to Gretna, you weren’t shocked and you weren’t angry and you weren’t fearful. You were relieved.”

  He was right. She had been.

  And he’d noticed.

  “Someday, I hope you’ll find your way to telling me why,” he finished. “But I am not asking you to feed that hope now. Nor am I asking you for money or power or revenge. Instead, I am asking if you would let me eat dinner with you. So neither of us is alone.”

  And in two days of thinking that the man was dangerous, that was the moment he became most terrifying—when he offered her something she could not resist. Companionship.

  They ate together, the sounds of the taproom below a distant hum in the space. Adelaide watched him from the corner of her eye until she could not stay quiet any longer. “At Havistock House, you called John your heir.”

  He met her gaze, his eyes like a clear blue day. “Jack is my heir.”

  “Because you have no plans to marry.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why not?”

  It was the question he’d avoided answering downstairs. Clayborn sat back in his chair and watched her for a moment. “Are you offering?”

  “What? No. What?” He couldn’t really believe she would—

  “Adelaide,” he said, with an amused smile that she hated and liked too much. “I jest, but thank you for putting me directly back into my place with a wicked blow to my pride.”

  “I didn’t mean that you weren’t marriageable,” she rushed to say.

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean, you’re a duke.”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  “A duke who believes in love . . . or so you say.” Which made him the closest thing Adelaide had ever seen to a mythological creature.

  “I believe my brother is in love with Lady Helene, yes.”

  “And that is enough?”

  “As the lady loves him back, I shall do all in my power to ensure that they live happily ever after.” He said it with a firm certainty, as though it were a simple fact.

  It was the kindest thing she’d ever heard anyone say, and perhaps that was why she asked, “Why do you believe in it?”

  He returned to his food, speaking to his plate. “Because I have witnessed it.”