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She provided the missing piece.

“We will strike an agreement,” he said, relaxing his arms, letting her lean back.

Her lips were swollen in her pallid face, her eyes wide.

“I won’t give up my brother,” she whispered. “I told you I—”

“Hear me out,” he interrupted. “I don’t expect you to give him up. The action required has to do with my brother, not yours.”

—

Nina heard Alan out. When he’d finished, she stood and paced to the window, staring blankly at one tiny piece of painted glass. When she turned to face him, all she could do was repeat his words.

“You’d give me what I need to buy the bakery.” She pressed a finger to her lips. They felt shockingly tender, bruised from the pressure of his mouth.

He was slouched in his corner of the settle, watching her.

“I’ll give you whatever you’re asked to pay in cash. I’ll provide equipment, too, and inventory.” He gave her a strangely poignant smile.

“And I’ll give you . . . letters. Letters I steal from the duke’s study.” Her legs didn’t feel entirely solid beneath her.

He knew the truth. He hadn’t lashed out. He’d unleashed his desire, not his rage, and she’d met his wild kisses with her own. Until he’d ripped himself away. She hadn’t caught him. He’d broken the kiss, broken free of the magnetism that pulled them together. As should she.

He didn’t condemn her. But he did condemn Jack. Her stomach kicked.

“May it be the last time you pick a lock.” Alan’s voice was light, but his smile twisted his mouth. He was fully aware that he’d introduced another irony into the situation. He sent her on an errand to Umfreville House that mirrored her first.

“Why are these letters so valuable?” Her voice sounded frayed.

“They were penned, and perfumed, by Lady Kilderbee.” He stretched out his long legs, careful to avoid the stacked books. “You met her, in passing.”

She nodded. The uncommonly pretty woman from the patisserie.

“And Lord Kilderbee,” she said, recalling her fulsome husband.

“Indeed.” He raised a brow. “My brother’s staunchest ally in Parliament. Terrible shame if long-standing cuckoldry came between them.”

She approached the settle. “How do you know about these letters? And where they are?”

“I’ve rifled through every drawer in that house.” His gaze wandered away from her. “I was in residence the year before last. Geoffrey left his keys in plain view. He must have been distracted, packing in a white heat. He was rushing Claud to the Adriatic—an advantageous choice, for Geoffrey, given his political hobbyhorses. He spent those months abroad courting Italian foreign ministers.” He sneered. “I wasn’t looking for his personal papers. I was looking for . . .” His face slammed shut. “I was looking for something else.”

“What?” She wished she hadn’t asked.

He wasn’t going to let her in.

As she expected, he ignored her question. “It’s just as well I found Lady Kilderbee’s billets-doux instead.” He folded his arms. “Once those letters are in my possession, Geoffrey is in my power.”

“Blackmail.” She mouthed it gingerly, an ugly word.

“A last resort.” His eyes narrowed. “I’d have continued to play Geoffrey’s ridiculous game on his terms, if the stakes were purely financial.” Muscles tightened in his jaw. “But he risks my nephew’s life.”

“The coughing fits.” Ice formed in Nina’s chest. “They’ve taken a turn for the worse?”

Now Alan’s eyes were slits. “The coughing fits provide my brother with a pretext. They justify his shipping Claud to Italy, along with his wife.”

“He’s sending them to Italy,” repeated Nina, and Alan’s expression became vacant.

“Pistoia,” he said, his voice hollow. “Because his marriage has taken a turn for the worse.”