‘If you please, my lord,’ the butler urged.

Rafe stroked the tall woman with one last glance, reluctantly offering a parting nod before following the butler to a room near the back of the house.

They reached the end of the hallway and the butler pushed open the door to an old study, the bare, sagging shelves held up by dust. A round man with spectacles sat at a desk, reviewing stacks of yellowed papers. He stood as Rafe entered, a wide smile drawing back the jowls framing his mouth.

‘Mr Nettles, Lord Densmore to see you,’ the butler rasped.

‘Lord Densmore, what a pleasure.’ A few loose threads from his cuff waved as the man motioned Rafe to the wood chair in front of the desk. ‘Sit, please.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t arrive when my letter said I would, but business in France delayed me.’ It damn near killed me. If he hadn’t enjoyed a small winning streak at the tables, he’d still be stuck in the stinking place. ‘My condolences on Mrs Ross’s passing.’

‘Yes, poor woman. Takes her first trip outside in over twenty years and some runaway carriage strikes her. Terrible business.’ The solicitor tutted as he lowered himself into his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. ‘I suppose she was right to stay hidden away for so many years.’

‘If would seem so.’ If only the carriage had finished off the wretched blackmailer before she’d mailed the blasted letter. Then who knew whose hands the register might have fallen into. At least now there existed the chance of buying the entire rotten thing, not just the page with his late father’s name on it, and the proof of his treason. ‘Mrs Ross wrote to me while I was in Paris, offering to sell me a certain book of hers.’

‘Yes, I know of it. Not a very interesting read. Nothing but lists of nobility and numbers next to their names. Probably accounts from the men who paid for her company in her youth. According to the butler, she was quite a beauty back then.’ The man chuckled, his round belly bouncing up and down beneath his wrinkled waistcoat. Then his jowls dropped, giving him the look of an innocent bloodhound waiting for its master’s command. ‘Why do you want such a thing?’

‘I have my reasons.’ Rafe didn’t elaborate, unwilling to enlighten the man on the true nature of the register.

‘Yes, I suppose you do.’ The mask of innocence slipped just a bit, reminding Rafe of an exceptional card player he’d once bested in France whose ability to bluff almost matched his. Then the solicitor rubbed his chins, the look gone. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t arrive a hair sooner.’

Fear snaked up his spine, all thoughts of gambling or what the puffy man might know about the register gone. Obtaining it was almost the only thing he’d thought about since landing in Dover. He’d torn through Wealthstone Manor in search of anything left of value to sell to obtain it. The delightful set of silver spoons he’d discovered in the attic, wedged in their wooden box between two trunks and somehow missed by his father, had just been sold this morning.

Rafe shifted forward in the chair, his hand tight on the arm. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It seems you weren’t the only one Mrs Ross wrote to about the register. Judging from her papers, she’d been in straitened circumstances for some time and was forced to part with a number of possessions. There are still outstanding debts and I’ll have a hard time settling them with what valuables are left.’ He grabbed a crinkled paper with each hand, flapping them in the air. ‘Though it would be a might easier to sort through it all if she hadn’t called herself Mrs Ross at one time, Mrs Taylor in later years and now Mrs Ross again. I wish she’d made up her mind about who she was.’

‘And the book?’ Rafe tensed, eager for him to get on with it.

‘A young woman arrived just before you did, a French Comtesse, though she didn’t sound French. I sold it to her.’

‘Hell.’ Rafe jumped up and ran to the door. He flung it open and raced down the hall, sending balls of dust whirling out of his way. At the morning room he stopped. Only the wilted white flowers greeted him. ‘Blast.’

‘Lord Densmore.’ The solicitor came down the hall behind him as Rafe rushed to the front door and pulled it open. Outside, everything was the same as before, except for the hackney. It rolled down the street, a familiar face watching him through the back window before the vehicle turned the corner and disappeared in the traffic on Gracechurch Street.

Cornelia, Comtesse de Vane.

What’s she doing here? Rafe slammed his fist against the doorjamb and a small splinter slid beneath his skin. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in France, rotting away with her crooked old husband at Ch^ateau de Vane, counting the silver or ordering the servants about, not stealing the register out from under him.

‘Lord Densmore, I’m truly sorry for your inconvenience.’ The solicitor puffed from behind him. ‘Had I known the book was so important to you—’