The honesty in the confession summoned her reply. It was the only explanation for her asking, “And you do not wish it for yourself?”

  Silence fell between them, heavy with something Adelaide could not identify. Something that made her hot with discomfort, as though she had overstepped. Which of course she had. Whether or not the Duke of Clayborn wished for love was absolutely not her concern.

  “Well,” she said, when it became clear he was not going to answer. “I’m sure any number of pristine, perfect misses would happily marry you and produce an absolute gaggle of heirs.”

  “I should prefer to remain out of the Matchbreaker’s sights.”

  The slight tease in his words released her from her nerves, back to normal. Whatever normal was when she was with him. “Is there something I should know about you, Henry Carrington, Duke of Clayborn, impeccably educated, wildly erudite, handsome enough to send the young ladies of Mayfair to their smelling salts, and a proper hero for the common people?”

  His brows shot together. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Handsome?”

  “A hero.” There was distaste in the words.

  “The newspapers call you that,” she said. “They love your pretty words. You’re to change the world, they say.”

  “A worthy goal, no?”

  “Absolutely,” she allowed. “But you can’t do it from Parliament.”

  “You don’t care for politics.”

  “I am a woman alive in the world, Your Grace. My existence is politics, whether I care for it to be or not. It is not the politics, but the politicians.”

  He nodded. “You do not think we can make change.”

  “I think large groups of powerful men have little reason to make change.” She paused. “Though I daresay your speeches are pretty.”

  And they were. Once, she’d been in the gallery at the House of Lords when he’d spoken on child labor, on those born without silver spoons and titles, and he’d nearly sent her to her feet with his righteous anger. She’d recognized it, akin to her own.

  Not that she would admit it.

  “Pretty,” he said, “but not enough.”

  She shrugged one shoulder and forked another bite of pie. “Why talk when there is action to be taken?”

  “I confess to feeling that way myself on most days.” He leaned back in his chair. “Then your file contains plenty about me, after all.”

  “I don’t need a file to know about you,” she scoffed. “I simply need a subscription to the News.”

  “And if you were hired to matchbreak me? That would be enough?”

  Who would wish to matchbreak you? Another bite, needing the moment to tamp down the immediate response. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. “Everyone has secrets. Even heroes.”

  Something flashed in his dark gaze. Something that sent triumph coursing through Adelaide, because you could take the girl out of South Lambeth, but you couldn’t take the thief out of the girl. And the Duke of Clayborn was hiding something. A secret.

  “Why did you offer to share this room with me?”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth. He did not seem the kind of man who would stand for fleeing an enemy when he might fight. Indeed, she’d seen him fight men stronger and stouter than he, and without hesitation.

  That, and the single scout searching for a girl who was safe in the arms of her love two hours up the road in a rainstorm was not the reason she’d invited him here.

  I should have taken better care of him. That story—the way Clayborn shouldered the burden of his brother. Responsible. Thoughtful. Decent. There’d been something noble there that Adelaide had liked. Something honest.

  But he wasn’t all honest. He did have a secret, and it was dear enough to have been stolen by Alfie Trumbull and chased by the duke himself.

  Setting her plate on the table, Adelaide crossed to her carpetbag, on a low bench at the end of the bed. Aware of Clayborn’s intense focus, she opened it and searched within, until she found what she was looking for.

  Turning toward him, she set his brother’s file on the table. On top, she placed the oak cube, before lifting her plate. Resuming her seat, she took another bite of pie and watched him resist the urge to race for his prize.

  He found her eyes. “You brought it back to me.”

  She tilted her head. “Perhaps.”

  Suspicion flooded his face. “For a price.”

  “The sheer goodness of my heart is not a possibility?”

  He gave a little huff of air. Not enough to be a laugh, but enough for her to wonder what his laugh would sound like. “Not even a bit.”

  She pointed her fork in the direction of the cube. “Open it, and the dossier is yours.”

  The humor disappeared from his gaze immediately. “No.”

  Her brows shot up. “Interesting. So whatever is inside . . . it is more precious than your brother’s file?” Fascinating.

  He hesitated at that, clearly loathing that he had given her more information than he’d intended, simply by refusing her request. “What is inside is private.”

  The second time he’d used the word to describe the contents of the cube. She set down her plate and lifted the box, inspecting it, allowing satisfaction into her words. “And it can be opened.”

  “Yes.” The word was pulled from him, as though by force.

  She turned the box over and over in her hands, searching for something. “Then there must be a key.”

  He watched her for a long time, until he was unable to remain at a distance. Crossing to sit across from her, he asked, “Would you like a hint?”

  “I know better than to think you’ll give me one for free.”

  He inclined his head. “What’s the fun in that?”

  “There isn’t any.” This, she understood. A trade. “What then? Name your price.”

  “Answer my questions.”

  That could be extremely costly. Still, she brazened on. “That’s it?”

  “Yes. For each question you answer truthfully, I shall give you a hint to open the box. And when you open it, I get everything. What’s inside and what’s in the dossier.”

  She tilted her head. “And what do I get?”

  “The satisfaction of knowing how to open it.”

  Desire thrummed through Adelaide at the smug answer, delivered as though there was no doubt in the man’s mind that he’d offered her a prize beyond measure.

  He couldn’t possibly be serious, unless the questions would be the kind she would not answer truthfully. But Adelaide had gone before the magistrate on more than one occasion in her short life, and knew well how to spin a yarn. “How many questions?”

  “As many as you need.”

  She nodded. “Go on, then.”

  “How do you know where my brother is?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you not know? You knew they were eloping.”

  He nodded. “I did, but for barely any time before you did. A hastily written note, received in the moments before I was summoned to Havistock House.”

  She nodded. It made sense. Helene and Jack had left quickly, and if the scout downstairs was any indication, just in time to escape her father’s hunt.

  In exchange for Clayborn’s truth, she offered a bit of her own. “Couples on their way to Gretna Green are rarely smart about their choices. They regularly choose speed over security, and they barely ever cover their tracks—the downfall of entitlement.” She could have stopped there, but added, “Your brother and Lady Helene had a half-dozen possible choices for the night. The Matchbreaker has a far-reaching network that puts eyes in every one of them. They aren’t difficult to track. We’ll catch them tomorrow.”

  “We?” he asked.

  She bit her tongue. “I will catch them. You’ll catch up eventually, I’m sure.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, which was the only reason she noticed his mouth at all. It had nothing to do with the dim light and the warm fire and the fact that they were in a bedchamber together. Nor the constant memory of how those lips felt on hers when she’d kissed them.

  I shouldn’t have done that.

  She urged herself to remember his words after he’d kissed her. She’d been a mistake.

  He lifted his chin in the direction of the box. “If you apply pressure to two opposite corners, you’ll be able to rotate an exterior panel.”

  A wave of excitement crashed through her as she tumbled the oak cube over and over, rushing to follow instructions. After a failed first attempt, she found the corners that activated the puzzle and—twist. She looked to him. “Amazing.”

  She could feel his attention on her, more focused than before. “Mmm.” It wasn’t the first time he’d rumbled like that, a cross between agreement and something else . . . something like approval.

  She shouldn’t like it.

  There were too many things about this man she shouldn’t like.

  And still, she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  “Did you make this?”

  “No.”

  “What next?” she asked, her fingers chasing over the box, looking for new trips, for switches or buttons. And there, where it had not been before, was a tiny notch. Barely noticeable. She gave a little sound of delight and inspected it. Pressing, pulling.

  An idea sparked. She lifted her fork.

  “No.” The word was firm. Insistent. Not to be disobeyed.

  Her attention flew to him, and she stilled. “No?”

  “No,” he said, as though it was enough.

  She set it down. “So . . . what?”

  “Another question.”

  “Or I keep working at it.”

  He nodded. “Or you keep working at it. But I don’t expect you’ll have much time with it now that I know where it is, and we are locked together for the evening.”

  The words sizzled through her. She did not look to the bed, despite the way it beckoned.

  He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Shall I ask another question? Speed things along?”

  She nodded. Just one more. One more, and she’d stop this game, which was getting more and more dangerous. “I am an open book.”

  “No, Adelaide.” Her name. He’d said her name. “You’re nothing like an open book. Now tell me, what happened downstairs?”

  She didn’t flinch. Instead she leveled him with a cool look. “What’s in the box?”

  He hesitated—he couldn’t possibly be thinking of answering, and still, for a moment she thought he might. “Nothing that would send you racing from the room.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “And I didn’t race.”

  He tutted his disapproval. “I don’t give hints for falsehoods. Something in that taproom unnerved you, Adelaide Frampton. And you don’t seem the kind of woman who startles easily. What was it?”

  She shook her head, she couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t trust him. What Helene had seen—what she still faced—she could not trust he would not get in the way of Adelaide reaching her. Protecting her. “There was nothing.”

  He was out of his chair like a shot, returning to his place at the door, his back to her for a long moment before he asked, “Are you in danger?”

  Of course he asked that. “No.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Will you be?”

  “Yesterday we dispatched a half-dozen Bully Boys together, Your Grace. I believe I might be in danger again someday, yes.”

  He gave a frustrated sigh at the bold answer, tacit acceptance that she was not going to tell him the full scope of the situation. He turned and set his back to the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, you are simply chaos.”

  Something warmed inside her at the description—one no one had ever used with her.

  “And to think,” he went on, “you imagine yourself unnoticeable.”

  “How did you find me here?”

  “I thought I was asking the questions.”

  She set the box to the table once more. “It’s my turn. How did you find me tonight?”

  “I searched three other inns first. It was bloody cold and bloody wet.”

  She tilted her head. “And if I hadn’t been here? Would you have given up?”

  “No, Adelaide,” he said, “I wouldn’t have given up.”

  The answer unsettled her. She shook her head as though she could clear the sensation. Erase the truth of the words. “For your box and your brother.”

  “Mmm.” A half agreement. Like a word on parchment, washed out in the rain.

  “And how did you know to find me in Covent Garden? At The Place?” She avoided calling it her rooms. He didn’t need to know she lived there. She didn’t want him to know she lived there, alone in the two-room flat, only the roar of the tavern for company.

  “You think you are the only one with access to information?”

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “I don’t like my information being shared without permission.”

  He raised a brow in the direction of the dossier on the table. The information on his brother, shared with Lady Havistock. “How odd. The rest of us enjoy it quite a bit.”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “The information I share is to be used against people who deserve it.”

  “My brother does not deserve it.”

  “No, he does not.”

  She surprised them both with the quick answer. “When did you realize that?”

  “Yesterday, at Havistock House.” When she’d realized Jack, Lord Carrington, had turned to bareknuckle fighting for The Bully Boys to keep Lady Helene safe. A decent man doing his best to protect the woman he loved.

  Decent, like his brother.

  “Yet you chase them, still. To break this match.”

  Not for that reason. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Because a terrible man was after an innocent girl. And the Belles needed to keep her safe. And the Matchbreaker was the best tool in their arsenal. But those were secrets that were not hers to tell. The best she could do was, “Because your brother is not the most important piece of this.”

  His body stiffened and his lips pressed together, his arms crossed over his chest like armor as he leaned against the door.

  “And so we are to be at odds.”

  She lifted her chin, ignoring the way the simple words, devoid of anger and full of truth, felt. “It is neither the first nor last time I will be at odds with powerful men.” She should have left it there. There was no more for him to know. Except she added, “I have spent a lifetime at odds with powerful men.”

  She waited for him to argue. To tell her that his brother was different. That he was different. That they were to be trusted. To press her for more. It was a play she knew well.

  When he finally spoke, however, it was with a new script. “Not tonight.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Tomorrow, we begin again. Tonight, we are not at odds.”

  Impossible. “Why not?”

  “Because we are here, in this room, together. And whatever unnerved you downstairs. Whoever unnerved you. Tonight . . . they shall have to come through me.”

  If she’d been given a dozen guesses as to what he would say, that wouldn’t have been on the list. And she could not deny how much she liked the promise in the words, a promise that no one had ever made to her before.

  To protect her. For no other reason than because he could.

  Pleasure bloomed in her breast, unbidden. Unwelcome. Who was this man? What was this game? “I am no damsel in distress.”

  “I do not disagree. I’ve seen the blade you keep strapped to your thigh.”

  The weapon in question grew heavy in its holster. “And still you stand sentry, as though I am.”

  Another long silence, long enough for Adelaide to wonder if they were through for the night. To rise and head for her bag once more, eager to busy herself beneath his watchful gaze.

  “My father liked puzzles.”

  Four words, like a revelation. A gift from the Duke of Clayborn, who even when he spoke of love, revealed nothing of himself.

  She stilled, looking to him. “He made the box.”

  He did not have to reply. She was right, and it explained a number of things, not the least of which was why the Duke of Clayborn had ventured into South Lambeth in shirtsleeves. Whatever was inside the box held value beyond riches. It was as he had said—private.

  “I like puzzles as well,” he added, and she nodded again. He came off the wall. “It’s why I followed you from the warehouse. To the docks. To Covent Garden. Why I followed you to this inn at the edge of the earth.”

  “We’re a day’s ride from London.”

  “But the rules here are different, aren’t they?” The words were a quiet rumble as he drew closer. “We might as well be on the other side of the planet.” She was beginning to regret urging him from his place by the door, his movements, smooth and sure, setting her heart pounding, heavy and quick, a mere change in his proximity enough to send her spinning. It was nonsense, of course.

  Except then he was there, standing in front of her, tall and toned—not like any aristocrat she’d ever seen before. Aristocrats were supposed to come in small, narrow, pasty packages. They were supposed to scare and cower and complain. No one had apprised the Duke of Clayborn of such a thing.

  She lifted her chin and tried very hard not to reveal the way her insides were tumbling about. “Are you still hungry?”

  “I am.” He did not stop at the table, however. He went round the edge of it. Until he was close to her, his trousers threatening to brush up against her skirts.

  She stood.

  Food. Food she could do. “The roasted veg is quite—”

  “I noticed.” He cut her off. And did not move.

  She was vibrating. Was she vibrating?

  “Your meal grows cold.”

  “I like puzzles,” he replied.

  She gave him a little smile. “You cannot eat a puzzle.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Mmm.”

  The sound sent something heavy and hot deep within her. She sucked in a breath.

  He heard it, one dark brow rising in a perfect arch. “I promised to give you clues about the box if you told me the truth . . . and I think that breath . . . it might be the most truthful you’ve been tonight.” And then he lifted his hand, reaching for her. Tempting her.