Her lips flattened at the cool correction. “Is his nose as straight as yours?”

  What?

  Before he could ask, she continued, casually, “Hard to believe it would be, considering the company he keeps.”

  “I knew it!” Lady Havistock interjected. “A scoundrel!”

  As though the woman weren’t married to something far worse.

  Clayborn did not have to speak the thought, as Adelaide was there first. “It’s not as though most men in Mayfair don’t deserve the descriptor, but yes. It seems this Carrington man—”

  “Lord Carrington,” he corrected, leveling Adelaide with all the cool disdain he could muster. Did she know what she played at? What a weapon her dossier might be?

  She couldn’t. He’d watched her with the aristocracy for the last year. For longer. He’d witnessed the loathing in her eyes when she watched them from the edges of ballrooms. He’d once watched her pick Havistock’s pocket. She couldn’t possibly be in league with the man.

  What then?

  She stayed quiet for a moment, and he found himself perversely pleased that he’d unsettled her. “Lord Carrington,” she began again, “like so many toffs before him, is quite skilled at amassing enormous amounts of debt in extremely short amounts of time.”

  Had she forgotten that she was standing in a home owned by a toff? That there was another toff in the room? And not just any toff. A duke.

  Clayborn bit back an instinctive noise of disgust. He was not the kind of man who lorded his title over others. He certainly never used it to impress. He’d spent his whole life attempting to live up to the damn thing. To deserve it. But this woman had tied him in knots with her black gown and her straight spine and that flame red hair that even now he wished to release and that pretty blue folder that threatened him with all the secrets she might know.

  Secrets she already had in her possession, because he’d kissed her instead of taking his box and walking away. That kiss.

  It had been a mistake. Obviously. The Duke of Clayborn did not make a habit of kissing women on cargo barges. Certainly not women like this, threatening his future in a dozen different ways.

  “What kind of debt?” the marchioness asked, not at all offended by Miss Frampton’s clear disdain for the aristocracy.

  “The ordinary kind.” The list came calm and relentless and unsurprising—all things Clayborn knew about his brother. “He’s a habitual gambler, having lost thousands of pounds to several casinos around London.” She looked to Clayborn. “Lucky for him, he retains access to them because the duke is known to clear Lord Carrington’s debts at regular intervals.”

  It was all true. Jack was young, rich and without purpose. At least, he had been. Clayborn leaned back in his chair and watched her. “My brother hasn’t set foot in a gaming hell in three months.”

  “Carrington likes drink.”

  “He’s given it up.”

  Her lips pressed into a straight line. “And women.”

  At twenty-six years old, yes, his brother had done his fair share of carousing. “Again, he packed it in.”

  “When?”

  “Three months ago.”

  Clayborn imagined her gaze shot daggers at him. “I assume we are to believe that is when he stopped drinking, as well?”

  “In fact, it is.”

  There was a pause as she watched him, and he resisted the urge to rip the veil from her eyes. “Why? What happened three months ago?”

  He did not hesitate. “He fell in love.”

  Her lips slackened for a moment beneath her veil, and she repeated, “Love.”

  “Quite,” he said, as though it were enough.

  “Well that’s sweet, but irrelevant to my report on this proposed match.” She set one gloved hand over the other on her file and returned her attention to the marchioness, who sat like stone, the only sign that she had heard the litany of items the tight grip of her fingers as she clenched her hands together.

  After a long moment, the older woman said, “Go on, then. Is it your opinion that he will harm her?”

  Adelaide hesitated and Clayborn clenched his teeth, anger thrumming through him. His brother was many things, and could be an absolute idiot at times, but he would never raise a hand to someone weaker than he. “He will not,” he bit out. “My brother is a changed man. He loves Lady Helene, which you would know if you had attempted to produce one of your files with more than a handful of records from gaming hells. He would never harm her.”

  A beat of silence, and then she said, “Spoken like a man who has never considered the woman’s lot in marriage.” The words were a straight shot of disdain, and the temperature in the room seemed to rise harshly in their wake. “A woman cannot eat love. Cannot wear it. Cannot live in it.”

  “It’s almost difficult to believe they call you the Matchbreaker.”

  “It’s almost difficult to believe you’re a grown man,” she retorted. “As believing in love is for fairy tales and children.”

  His brows rose.

  Who in hell did this woman think she was?

  Dismissing him, she turned back to the marchioness. “In my opinion, my lady, the man’s worst trait is his poor judgment, which could well impact Lady Helene’s happiness in the future. I am less concerned with his inability to remain out of debt—”

  “I am quite concerned about the debt!” The marchioness shrieked the word, as though it was a crime akin to murder. As though it came with a death sentence.

  And for moneyed people, it did come with exactly that—especially when the debtor in question was to marry their daughter. Forget about love—no one ever expected titled daughters to love their husbands. Marriage, to them, was a business proposition. The merging of families. As though two great nations were joining forces.

  “Oh for—” Clayborn began, barely biting off a rude remark. “Even if I was not keenly aware of the amount and location of every penny of my brother’s finances, I might remind you that Jack is my heir, and I have no trouble paying my debts.”

  “Oh, please,” Lady Havistock said, suddenly full of all the steel that came with a matchmaking mother. “He shan’t be your heir for long. You’re soon to realize that you’re getting too old to catch a young bride who will actually want you, and you’ll snatch up the first pretty face you see.”

  Well. Clayborn certainly could have done without the too old remark. He had no intention of snatching up any kind of face, pretty or otherwise, but he did not say so.

  Not even when Adelaide Frampton decided to offer her opinion. “The lady makes an excellent point, Duke. It’s a surprise I’ve not compiled a dossier on you, what with your unflagging belief in love . . . surely there’s some poor woman out there willing to win your heart?”

  “I’ve spent the better part of my time on earth dodging women looking to win my heart, as a matter of fact.” Silence fell in the wake of the words—words that made him sound like an absolute horse’s ass—and for the first time in his life, the Duke of Clayborn felt himself heat with . . . Christ, was that embarrassment?

  He refused to look at her, this infuriating woman who had tied him in knots twice that day. Not even when she said, in a voice dry as sand, “Truly, it’s almost difficult to believe you succeeded.”

  He stood from his chair. He had to leave this house. And this woman. “Lady Havistock,” he began, “if you summoned me here to press me into service—to end my brother’s courtship of your daughter with whatever information this woman has collected in her dossier—I assure you, you have wasted both of our time.

  “My brother is twenty-six years old, and whatever his failures or successes, he is more than a collection of accusations on a sheet of paper. I refuse to play this game of secrets and lies. Should they decide to marry, Lady Helene and Jack have the full blessing and support of the Dukedom.”

  “Really, Clayborn—you would throw my daughter to the wolves?”

  In a feat of immense strength, he refrained from pointing out that Lady Havistock and Adelaide Frampton were far closer to wolves than was his brother, who wanted no more than to marry the woman he loved.

  Instead, he ignored the question and turned to leave, making it only three steps before a cool voice stopped him. “Since you insist that your brother has been impeccably behaved for three months, Your Grace, perhaps you can explain why, two weeks ago, he threw his lot in with a group of men in the South Bank who have not a care in the world when it comes to recklessness?”

  She meant The Bully Boys. Men the Marquess of Havistock himself consorted with, Clayborn wanted to add. Yes, The Bully Boys ran the third-rate casinos that Jack frequented at his lowest point, but they were also thugs for hire, lacking all code, and willing to do anything for a price.

  The Bully Boys, whom they’d battled together, shoulder-to-shoulder, that very afternoon.

  He turned back. “You’re wrong. Jack hasn’t been near the South Bank in months.” She did not reply, and his jaw clenched painfully. “Tell me, then.”

  She looked to her folder. “Thirteen days ago, your brother took a night of bouts in an underground fight ring.”

  “What? Why?”

  “For the same reason most do, I assume. Money.” She considered the dossier. “He’s fought seven times since, and . . . won six. Impressive.”

  Impossible. He’d have noticed the remnants of a bareknuckle fight on him. When was the last time he’d seen Jack? Longer than two weeks.

  Still, Clayborn shook his head. “Your information is incorrect. If my brother were in trouble, he would come to me.”

  “Your Grace,” the Matchbreaker said, the words cold as ice. “I think you’ll find this particular audience will go much more smoothly if you accept that my information is never incorrect.”

  It’s time for you to stand on your own, Jack.

  His own words, whispering through him. The words he’d spoken, cool and paternal, three months prior. If you wish to marry the girl, you must prove you can care for her. Lady Helene, small and fresh-faced, looking barely out of pinafores in her first season out.

  They’d stood outside a South Bank casino, where Jack had once more lost his monthly allowance to the promise of making an easy fortune. This is the last debt I pay.

  What if there had been trouble, and Jack had not come to him?

  Whatever he’d said—however he’d played the firm older brother—Clayborn would have intervened, because that was what firstborn sons did. Even as he made stupid decisions for stupid reasons, Jack was his responsibility. In his care.

  Just as he always had been.

  But in that moment, he knew the truth. Adelaide Frampton’s information was not incorrect. Something had gone wrong. Jack had needed help. Instead of turning to his brother, he’d turned to The Bully Boys. And they’d taken their fee. They knew Jack and his weaknesses. And they were not afraid to exploit them. Nor would they hesitate to exploit Clayborn’s. They knew he was the line to Jack’s funds, and were willing to do anything to keep that line open.

  Including taking a commission to steal his secrets, secrets that were now in the possession of this woman, who made a career of revealing powerful men’s secrets to the world.

  He had to get that box back. Along with that file on her lap, which included God knew what.

  And he had to get to Jack.

  “Sir, I appreciate that your brother’s new hobby might come as a shock, but the difference between three months ago and two weeks ago is—”

  She stopped short, the air fairly crackling around her. She looked to the notes in her folder once more, before turning to look at him. Clayborn’s breath held in his chest. What else did she know? Where was the additional shoe to drop? And who would own it when it did?

  “Do you know the whereabouts of your brother right now?”

  “I do not.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, summoning a little shocked gasp from the marchioness.

  “I do not lie.” The second time he’d said it to her that day.

  “But in this, you are not telling the whole truth, are you?”

  How did she know?

  “I’ve heard enough,” the marchioness interrupted, standing to her full nonexistent height. “I don’t particularly care about the rogue’s whereabouts. He shall never come near my Helene again. In fact, I shall happily share this information far and wide. The young ladies of the ton must know the truth. It would be one thing if he were a duke and she were made duchess by the match. But a second son? One who spends his evenings fighting like a dog?” She turned to Clayborn. “I can barely think of it and you allow this . . . this stain upon your name?”

  Clayborn bit his tongue, resisting the urge to point out the irony that a woman married to the Marquess of Havistock would consider debt and illegal fighting a stain while turning a blind eye to her husband’s disgusting, avaricious, myriad crimes.

  “My brother loves your daughter, Lady Havistock. And she loves him, as well.”

  “Love!” The marchioness spat the word. “That man sold my Helene a false bill of goods, Clayborn. There’s no question about it. She’s a girl with a head on her shoulders, and she would never marry your ne’er-do-well brother knowing any of this. Not now, not ever!”

  The vow grew louder and louder until Lady Havistock’s final words echoed throughout the room, pinging off mahogany and gilt, beneath the disdainful gaze of the Havistock ancestors. She stood and swooped to the door of the room, yanking it open to shout a demand through the house. “Someone fetch Helene. Immediately.”

  Clayborn sighed. There was no way this would end well.

  Leave it to these women to ruin his day. “I assure you, Lady Havistock, whatever has happened between my brother and your daughter, she has been an active, willing participant.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. “I do not care for that insinuation. Were I a man, I would call you out.” She turned to her Matchbreaker. “I hope you do not mind staying a bit longer, madam. I should like Helene to hear about this from you, directly.”

  Clayborn’s hands fisted together behind his back. “There is a problem with that plan, my lady.”

  Adelaide Frampton looked to him, and he found himself once more willing to do any number of things to see her eyes. To know her thoughts.

  The marchioness’s eyes narrowed. “What problem?”

  A knock sounded at the door, and the servant who had shown Clayborn into the room stepped quietly inside, a folded piece of parchment in his gloved hand. “Ma’am,” he said softly, dipping his head in deference.

  “What is it?” The marchioness had clearly had enough.

  The servant’s throat worked, but he did not speak.

  Clayborn’s pulse pounded in his ears.

  “What is that?” the marchioness said, her words high and tight once more. As though she already knew what it was.

  She was saved from reading it, however, as Adelaide Frampton stood from her chair and said what they all knew to be the truth. “I would wager it is a note from your daughter, apprising you of her plans.”

  The marchioness turned shocked eyes on her Matchbreaker. “What plans?”

  She did know everything.

  “Duke?” Miss Frampton asked, standing, the sound of her silken skirts falling into place like gunshot in the shocked silence that punctuated her words.

  For a moment, he was distracted by those skirts. By her tall, lithe form—a form he knew intimately from not three hours earlier, when it had been pressed tight against his chest. By the soft scent of her—thyme and fresh rain and secrets—forevermore the scent he would associate with trouble.

  “Where is my daughter?!” It took all he had not to wince at the marchioness’s shriek.

  How did she know?

  Adelaide replied, as though he’d asked the question aloud, “Have you not yet realized, Your Grace? I know everything.”

  The sheer arrogance of the words should not have intrigued him. Should not have tempted him. His brother was on the run with an unmarried lady in tow, and Clayborn would have to tidy up the mess as soon as possible.

  He did not have time to notice this woman who had upended his day, and likely more than that. With a sigh, he reached into his pocket and extracted his watch before answering the marchioness. “If all is well, she is on her way to Nottingham.”

  Something shifted in Adelaide’s posture. Softened. Released. Like relief.

  She hadn’t known; but now she did.

  And she was relieved that the lady was gone. Why?

  “Why in hell would she be there?” Adelaide and Clayborn turned in surprise to look at the marchioness, who had just used language deeply unbecoming a marchioness.

  “Because they are eloping,” Adelaide answered.

  “Eloping!” The marchioness squealed her anguish. “To where?”

  “I assume they are headed where all couples head when they are looking to marry quickly.”

  “Gretna Green?” Lady Havistock was wailing now.

  “Gretna Green,” Clayborn confirmed, suddenly feeling he could regain control of the situation.

  “Unoriginal, but effective,” Miss Frampton replied. “Unless, of course, you’ve someone on hand who is willing to follow.”

  Lady Havistock clung to the words and turned on Adelaide. “You! I have paid you handsomely to break this match, and break it you shall!”

  “I shall ready my carriage immediately, my lady.” An even nod and a small smile punctuated the words, as though she’d been planning just that the whole time.

  What was she up to?

  The woman had a file on his brother, was in possession of Clayborn’s family secret, and had plans to leave the city with both. Which would happen over his decaying corpse. There was no way she was going alone.

  “Can you do it?” Lady Havistock asked, skeptical.

  Oh, Adelaide would not like that.

  “My lady, I’ve followed eleven couples to the border in my time as the Matchbreaker, and I’ve never had a match elude me,” Miss Frampton said, an unmistakable thread of annoyance in her tone as she returned the dossier to her case before standing and facing the marchioness across the desk. “I don’t intend to start now. I’ll have your daughter back to London in ten days’ time. Your work, at this point, is to ensure that no one is aware that she has left.”