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“He did not even return for his mother’s funeral.” She firmed her pretty mouth. “No, something is afoot.”

They had nearly reached the drawing room.

“We shall soon learn his intent.” Zander took her elbow. “I am certain he expects you to receive him alone. Let’s present a united front, shall we? He will be less inclined to bully.”

Her distracted nod and tremulous smile revealed her trepidation.

With Zander by her side, she need not fear

He would champion and defend her.

Zander entered beside Lilly.

Across the room, a tall, well-built man attired in the first stare of fashion stood with his hands behind his back as he stared out the window onto the terrace. He pivoted as Zander and Lilly entered, a half-derogatory, half-self-important smile bending his mouth upward.

Astonishment rendered him speechless for a heartbeat before he strode across the room, a genuine smile of recognition creasing his face.

“Captain Westbrook! I say! This is an unforeseen pleasure.” He spared Lilly a cursory glance. “I did not expect to see you here. Last I heard, you were cavorting about in His Majesty’s Army.”

Zander froze, rooted to the spot.

He closed his eyes as his memory came flooding back, so fast and so overwhelming that dizziness engulfed him. All those fragments he had partially remembered chinked neatly into place to complete the puzzle.

Why he was familiar with women’s periodicals, cosmetics, lavender, and herbs—Grandmama, Libby Westbrook.

His knowledge of High Society and le beau monde.

His abduction and beating by the Earl of Highbury’s thugs.

The daring escape he had risked in the dark of night—only he had believed he was heading toward Hexham. Concussed, he must have become turned around during his flight.

Thank God he had.

He opened his eyes.

He never would have met Lilly had he not been confused and fled in the wrong direction.

Making a gruff sound in his throat, he lifted an unsteady hand to his forehead.

“Zander? Are you all right?”

Lilly’s worried tone came from far off. She pulled her elbow from his grip and laid her palm on his forearm.

“Zander?”

He blinked to clear his muddled mind and hazy vision—then blinked again as he met her perceptive gaze.

Nay, not Zander.

He was Captain Layton Westbrook, formerly of His Majesty’s Army.

And this grinning rake was none other than Aldric Davenport, now the Viscount Merrivale. He had attended Cambridge with Layton’s adopted brother, Leonidas.

A frown pulled Merrivale’s eyebrows together and turned his mouth downward for a brief moment.

“Zander?” His expression cleared. “Ah, if I recall, Alexander is one of your middle names.”

Damned astute of the man because Layton did not have a bloody clue what Merrivale’s middle name was and neither did he give a farthing’s curse.