“Well,” Maggie said, low beneath her breath.

  Indeed.

  “Adelaide Frampton, a Duchess’s cousin”—he looked to the Duchess in question—“with rooms above The Place.”

  “Which place?” Maggie asked—her favorite question.

  One side of his mouth lifted in amusement. “Your place, if I had to guess, Miss O’Tiernen.”

  Maggie lifted her chin. “You’ve the better of me, Duke.”

  “Maggie, meet the Duke of Clayborn,” Adelaide said.

  “Charmed,” Maggie said when he offered a bow in her direction.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Adelaide said, adding, “I don’t care for people knowing my secrets, Duke . . . and you’ve learned too many of them too quickly.”

  He approached, movements long and easy, different than they’d been that afternoon. This was not the same man, of course. He was not on his back foot any longer. Now, he was leading the charge. “The feeling is mutual. I don’t care for the secrets you have, either.”

  “And what secrets are those?” Duchess asked, too casual.

  Clayborn’s attention flickered to the other woman before he repeated, “I don’t care for people knowing my secrets.”

  “Don’t worry, Duchess; I shall tell you later,” Adelaide said, not looking away from him.

  Clayborn’s gaze went stormy as the Duchess said, “Mmm,” as though she expected nothing less. And she did. The woman made a business of collecting information on London’s most powerful men. She’d be particularly interested in the fact that Adelaide believed the Duke of Clayborn was the owner of the box she’d thieved that morning.

  Though why The Bully Boys would be in possession of such an odd thing, Adelaide had not yet divined. She considered him in the darkness—nothing like the type of man who spent time with The Bully Boys. Too straight. Too pristine. In the year since she’d begun noticing him, she’d never seen him looking anything but a duke. At least, not until that afternoon. Bearded and throwing punches like a docklands prizefighter and kissing like one, too.

  He shouldn’t care to find her. Shouldn’t think of her at all. And still, he said, “You’ve something that belongs to me.”

  The box. She tilted her head in his direction. “And what is that?”

  His gaze glittered in the lamplight, irritated with her. This man who did not lie would either have to reveal the existence of his stolen property, or lie. And he did not like it.

  Good. She did not like him much, either.

  “Your dossier.”

  Duchess made a little sound in the back of her throat at the words, even as Adelaide gave a little triumphant laugh. “There’s absolutely nothing about that file that belongs to you.”

  “It is information about my family.”

  “Ah, but haven’t you heard? She that finds, keeps.” His gaze narrowed at the echo of her words from earlier in the day. She made for her carriage and tossed another bomb. “Even when the item was previously owned by a duke.”

  A hit. The barest flinch at the emphasis on his title, as though he was ashamed of the way he’d wielded it like a weapon earlier in the day.

  “You cannot think I will simply allow you to keep it,” he said, moving toward her, stopping only when Maggie and Duchess stepped between them.

  All toffs were exactly the same. “There’s no allowing about it. It’s mine now.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “How much do you want for it?”

  “What makes you think I would sell it to you?”

  “This is your job, is it not? Collecting this information and delivering it to the highest bidder? You don’t matchbreak out of the goodness of your heart—if you did, you wouldn’t set foot in Havistock House, as Lord and Lady Havistock exemplify the worst of the aristocracy, don’t you think? So much for saving the women of the world.”

  He meant to insult; it did not work.

  Few ever noticed the true strategy of the Matchbreaker. On the surface, she seemed to choose her clients without thought—available for all circumstances, all scandals being equal. But scandals were not equal, and neither were the homes she accessed. Instead, she chose the scandals most impacting the ton’s most powerful families, led by powerful men with too much to lose. Through her work, she could access a network of wives and daughters and sisters, who always knew more than men imagined, and often wished to share it, to atone for the ultimate sin . . . connection to a bad man.

  The Belles were there to help them atone. And to bring the worst of those men down.

  The Marquess of Havistock was one of the worst of the worst—unkind to his family, cruel to the world, and a murderer to boot. Adelaide would delight in the man’s demise.

  “It is not for sale.” She paused. “Especially not to you.”

  A beat, as he checked his irritation. “You said you wished to race me.”

  She did not blink at the change of topic. “I did. And I daresay I am already the frontrunner.”

  “If I win, you return it.”

  “I only compete with worthy opponents.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Prove yourself, and we’ll see.” He waited for her to continue. “Win the first leg.”

  Satisfaction crossed his face. Arrogant man. “Done. Name the location.”

  Maggie laughed then, already connecting the dots. Or the posting inns, as the case might be. They shared a look before Adelaide returned her attention to the duke. “Where’s the challenge in that?”

  The Duchess of Trevescan watched Clayborn over Adelaide’s shoulder. “Wicked bruise you’ve got there, Clayborn,” she said, her attention moving from his face to Adelaide’s as she asked, “Where’d it come from?”

  Adelaide raised a brow. “Are you surprised someone wanted to knock the toff back?”

  Maggie coughed to cover her laugh and Duchess smiled. “I don’t know a single duke who doesn’t deserve a knocking back, come to think of it.”

  “Yes, well . . . this one got his today.” While fighting alongside her.

  Adelaide ignored the thought and the sliver of guilt that came with it, instead making a show of looking over her shoulder at him, noting that his cool gaze revealed nothing of his reaction to her words. She didn’t like that. It made her want to rattle him. She met his eyes—startlingly blue in the dim light. “I’d best be going, Duke. Your brother isn’t going to find himself.”

  She turned her back on him, nodding to the driving block, where Marcus, the coachman who would drive the first leg of the journey, keeping her from watchful London eyes, was already seated, ready for distance and speed. When they changed horses, Marcus would return to the city, and she’d be alone in a fast, light carriage . . . unbeatable.

  Still, Clayborn watched her.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” he said.

  “I shan’t hold my breath.”

  He rocked back on his heels, sliding his hands in his pockets, and suddenly, for a moment, the man from the docks was returned. Casual, graceful, and tempting.

  No. Dukes were not tempting. Certainly not this one.

  Not even when he said softly, “We’ll see.”

  Not even when he turned away and made his way back down the alleyway, fading into the darkness, making her feel, wildly, as though she was the one who was left behind.

  After a long moment, Maggie’s low whistle sounded. “I wouldn’t mind that man stowing away in my carriage.”

  Adelaide scowled and Duchess laughed, the sound punctuated by the roar of distant chatter and laughter from inside the tavern beyond. “I’ll say this,” Duchess added, wry. “Those lips . . . they’re not like any ducal lips I’ve ever seen. It’s no wonder you were kissing them in broad daylight this afternoon, Adelaide.”

  Adelaide’s cheeks flamed. Dammit. She should have known they’d sort it out. Adelaide cut her friend a look. “Did you two come out here for a reason?”

  “In fact, we did,” Duchess said, turning serious. “You’ve riled The Bully Boys, Adelaide. You were seen and you escaped, and Alfie doesn’t like being made a fool of. Danny is already sniffing around. Looking for you.”

  Adelaide curled a lip. Danny Stoke was Alfie Trumbull’s right hand—sent to sort out dirty business important enough that it required a modicum of finesse. He was Adelaide’s age, and the boy Alfie regularly referred to as the child he’d never had.

  Which had never bothered Adelaide, as she’d regularly wished she had also been the child her father never had.

  Danny’s appearance wasn’t a surprise. She knew she’d been recognized as she’d fled the warehouse—Clayborn’s fault. And Alfie wouldn’t be able to stand even a whisper of his long-lost daughter—already whispered about in Lambeth—returning to steal from him.

  “Alfie is lookin’ to punish me,” she said, letting the South Bank edge into her words.

  Maggie nodded, her dark eyes serious. “Askin’ questions, at least.”

  “It won’t be asking for long, though, will it?” The Bully Boys weren’t known for tact or gentility. They moved with brute force, and The Place had suffered before.

  “They’ll have to come armed to the teeth if they want to take us on here again,” Duchess said. The Place was heavily protected by several layers of security both inside and outside the tavern. Not even The Bully Boys would be stupid enough to come for it. “But they don’t want all of us tonight.”

  Adelaide looked to the closed door of the tavern. “Just me.”

  Still, she’d die before putting these women or those inside The Place in danger. If The Bully Boys had information on her, it was her battle. Alone. She looked to her friends, these women who years ago had given her a new path, a fresh start. “What of you? If they think you’re hiding me . . .”

  Both chins lifted in challenge.

  “Let them come,” Maggie said.

  Duchess came forward, taking Adelaide by the shoulders. “We’ll send word. Keep to the safe places. The ones where the walls listen for us.” A vast network of taverns and inns on post roads throughout Britain, managed by one of their crew, Mithra Singh, a Punjabi brewmistress with a skill for ale making and secrets. “And stay alert.”

  As she’d been her whole life.

  Adelaide cursed harshly, knowing they were right and hating it all the same. With no choice, she turned to the carriage. She nodded up to Marcus, who put a hand to his brim in acknowledgment as she made for the dark cabin.

  Duchess followed her, staying the door before Adelaide could close it behind her. “Ten days isn’t long.” When Adelaide did not reply, the woman who prided herself on always being one step ahead pressed on, her tone dry, with a hint of amusement. “I’m almost sorry I’m not joining you, Adelaide. I’d dearly like to watch this game play out.”

  “It’s not a game,” Adelaide said sharply. “A girl is alone, possibly pursued by her murdering father, with nothing but a useless aristocrat to keep her safe, and I’m in the wind.” She bit her tongue before adding, With the Duke of Clayborn.

  “You shall find her, as you always do,” Duchess said simply. “You’ll find her, see her back safely, and we’ll see her safe afterward. If she loves the boy, she can have him eventually. But right now—”

  “—we’ve other plans,” Adelaide finished. Ruining an aristocrat. Exposing him for a murderer. Meting out justice.

  “That shall all be the easy bit.”

  Adelaide’s brows rose. “Then what’s the difficult bit?”

  Duchess and Maggie shared a grin before Maggie replied, “The game with the duke.”

  The answer thrummed through her. “There won’t be any game with the duke.”

  “Of course there will be,” Duchess said. “And if I know you, being in the wind with that duke chasing you, it will turn out to be your favorite game.”

  Adelaide didn’t care what that duke did. And still, she asked, “What game is that?”

  “Cat and mouse.”

  Maggie laughed from beyond the door of the carriage, her rich voice carrying through the darkness. “Who is the cat and who is the mouse?”

  “Look at her: Adelaide Frampton, a solitary genius with a wicked sense of justice and a talent for stealing.” Duchess smiled that smile that meant everything was going according to plan. “Obviously, she’s the cat.”

  Chapter Five

  Clayborn made his way into the Hawk and Hedgehog posting inn the next night, covered in mud and full of frustration.

  The tavern was warm and filled with chatter as he pushed inside, squeezing past a customer on his way out, into the cold rainstorm beyond. It took Clayborn a moment to register the way the volume of the room quieted, as his eyes adjusted to the bright interior, awash in golden light.

  He’d attracted the attention of most of the people within—a wide cross section of travelers and locals. A group of women in workaday frocks laughing at a far-off table. A pair of young bucks standing at the bar, muddy boots making a mess of the scuffed oak floor. A round-faced, dark-skinned farmer as big as a house, with a buxom beauty pressed to his side. And behind the bar, a plump tavern mistress with gleaming black hair, porcelain skin, and a mouth turned up like a bow. He met her dark, hooded eyes, noting her amused recognition, as though she knew something he did not.

  Or, rather, as though she knew what he did not wish her to know.

  He’d lost Adelaide.

  He knew he shouldn’t think of her in such an informal way. He was a duke, after all, and she was a woman he barely knew, no matter how much thinking of her made him imagine differently. And Lord knew he’d been thinking of her for the last twenty-four hours.

  He’d thought of her as he left London behind, dawn breaking in the east, certain that he would catch up with her larger, heavier carriage within hours. He’d thought of her as the skies had opened and he’d pulled his cap low over his brow, hunching his shoulders and refusing to find shelter. The thoughts had bounced from irritation to frustration before lingering on a catalogue of her features. Her keen brown eyes, glittering with knowledge behind those wire-rimmed spectacles. Her pert chin, lifted in defiant challenge. Her cheeks, bright with October’s evening chill . . . or more? They’d been pink when he’d kissed her, too. Pink as her lips.

  His thoughts had lingered on those lips for longer than they should have, as his matched horses had raced north. As he’d begun his search, hours into the journey, for any sign of their owner.

  Adelaide Frampton had disappeared.

  There’d been no sign of her at the Tipped Pheasant in Hanslope.

  None at the Cock and Canary in Wilton.

  There’d been four drunken louts in Shawell at the Singing Stone Inn, too deep in their cups to be any help.

  So, by the time he’d arrived in the drive of the Hawk and Hedgehog, Clayborn was ready for a meal, a bath, and a bed in which to sleep off his irritation that she had, as promised, outrun him. He’d never be able to boast of his driving skills again.

  And now, to make matters worse, an entire taproom’s worth of people watched him.

  Clayborn stiffened, shoulders and spine straightening as he attempted not to notice the room noticing him. He was a duke, after all. People noticed him more often than not, but they usually did it with admiration.

  This group instead stared at him as though he were a curiosity—a lumbering creature stepped from Mary Shelley’s novel. The siren song of warm food and sleep was more powerful than the urge to retreat, however, so he approached the proprietress of the tavern.

  “Good evening, traveler.” She waved to a spot at the end of the bar. “Ale? Food?”

  Clayborn nodded in the direction of the tapped cask behind the bar. “Thank you.”

  “’Course,” she said, turning to pull a pint, setting it on the shining mahogany before him. “Your Grace.”

  He met her eyes. “You’ve the better of me.”

  She grinned. “Your carriage carries a ducal crest—you should be careful of that, you know . . . you’re a highwaywoman’s prize.” Before he could query the word, she added, “Though if I’m being honest, even looking like the road tossed you through the doors, you reek of title.”

  Apparently, title did not carry much weight in the Hawk and Hedgehog. “Should I apologize?”

  “Don’t see why you would,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ain’t your fault how you were born.”

  The words echoed through him, true and somehow impossible to believe, but he had no reason to discuss it with this woman, no matter how welcoming she seemed. “I’d like a room, please. And a bath. And a meal.”

  She smiled, a big broad grin, as though he’d said something wildly entertaining. “Lord knows dukes’ money spends as well as anyone else’s.”

  Clayborn knew a prompt when he heard one, and reached into his pocket, prepared to pay whatever additional tax this shrewd businesswoman would add to find room for an aristocrat that evening.

  Except his pocket was empty, save for a three-inch slit in the fabric. His purse was gone.

  He looked up into the twinkling eyes of the tavern mistress, suspicion flaring even before she tilted her head. “Problem, Your Grace?”

  She knew exactly what the problem was. “I don’t suppose you’ll extend credit.”

  She made a show of sucking in a breath. “In my experience, the rich ones never pay their debts.”

  Snickers spread through the room, though when he looked around the space to confront them, their audience appeared deep in its own business. Bollocks. He’d never met a group of people more in his business.

  Clayborn swallowed a curse as a voice spoke at his shoulder. “I shall cover the duke, Gwen.”

  He grew hot at the words.

  He hadn’t lost her.

  Triumph sizzled through him, even as he knew it was silly to feel it. It wasn’t as though she was priceless treasure, dammit. And still, he turned toward her as though she were just that, doing his best to remind himself that Adelaide Frampton was a troublesome, contrary, unruly woman, and a thief as well.

  She looked as though she’d been riding as long as he had, her rich green traveling dress beneath a dark cloak damp with the rain, the hem of her skirts caked with mud. Her cheeks were red with the cold air of the night beyond as she lifted one hand to remove her spectacles and clean them of the fog that had appeared on them when she entered the warm pub. The only thing that remained impeccable was the one thing he wished to see unraveled—her hair, tightly hidden beneath her cap, the copper shine that had tempted him on the docks tucked out of view.