“Very well. I want a list of my father’s creditors.”
His mother had kept their identities from him. Somehow, she’d managed to settle every debt. He’d long assumed it was the work of her mysterious lover—a man whose name she’d taken to the grave.
It wasn’t until Daventry arrived weeks ago with a letter that the truth emerged. Lord Harland was the coward. The lover who killed her.
“But your father’s been dead for more than ten years.”
Shame it wasn’t twenty. That he’d not suffered a bout oftemporary insanitysooner. At least he’d settled Shadowmere on his only son before he loaded the pistol.
“If you want to attend the Autumn Masque, bring me aname and proof. I won’t host another gathering until I have the full list in hand and can verify every last one.”
A collective gasp echoed behind him.
Good. Let them scramble for a new den of vice.
Miss Harland slipped her arm through his and tugged lightly. “We should give Lord Templeton time to consider his options. You promised to show me the garden before it gets cold.”
“I promised to show you a lot of things.”
“Then take me outside. Be a man of your word.”
The veiled suggestion wasn’t lost on him. He might have groaned aloud but offered Templeton one last look instead. “Enjoy your evening. I know I intend to.”
He led Miss Harland through the terrace doors into the cool hush of night, eager to put distance between her and the reckless rabble.
The garden resembled Eden after the fall—perfumed with jasmine and teeming with sinners. Lanterns glowed amber among the trees, casting long, sultry shadows. The box maze had become a bordello of rustling hedgerows, moans drifting like incense.
“A maze. How marvellous.” Miss Harland’s innocent eyes brightened. “At Lady Huntington’s country party last Christmas, I reached the centre first.”
“The guests in there are of the same mind—being first to the post, that is. Linger long enough and you’ll hear their cries of triumph.” And a few colourful curses when they crossed the finish line.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me, sir.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Mock you? Never. And I told you, only call mesirin bed.”
She glanced at the burning braziers and the festoons oflights strung between the trees. “It’s rather romantic, given the circumstances.”
Her gaze settled on the polished oak floor laid over half the lawn. She said nothing. She looked up at the night sky, tilting her head as the strains of a waltz floated through the open terrace doors.
What must it be like to live in hope?
To dream and not wake with regret?
To be broken and still marvel at the stars?
“What are you thinking?” He wasn’t sure why he cared.
She sighed as she stared at the heavens. “That nothing is as beautiful as the sky above Shadowmere on a clear night.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed.”
She turned to him. “Then you must come to the cottage. I’ve a spare chair and blanket, but you’ll have to bring your own brandy.”
He pictured her outside, wrapped in wool and innocence. Of all the invitations he’d received, none was more tempting than this.
He offered his hand. “I know my name tops the list of men you’re meant to avoid, but would you care to dance, Miss Harland?”
“Dance?” She glanced behind, one brow lifted. “There’s not a soul on the floor. Who are you trying to impress?”
