“What is the meaning of this, Your Grace?” Chatham asked in an obvious attempt to feign innocence. His chin quivered, sending the extra chin hanging above his neck into convulsions.

In the brief moments since Peter had introduced his companions to the group, Barrow had been bodily returned to the room after a desperate attempt to flee. Alex fumed from his seat, where Derek and Neil stood at his side, a staying hand from each pressed none-too-gently into his shoulders, though he was sure Neil would allow him to break free if he felt the need to. Derek was an altogether different story.

Alex’s anger at these two men threatened to explode, to overwhelm his enforced calm, to outweigh his judgment. There was Chatham’s callous treatment of his daughter, his false accusation against her aunt and uncle, and his denial of Alex’s pursuit. There was Barrow’s treatment of Grace, which, whether he forced himself on her or not, he left her alone to deal with the shame of his actions and a pregnancy to boot. Alex couldn’t even think of how the man had mistreated Priscilla. The bastard deserved no less than the hangman’s noose.

But in the eyes of the law, he had done nothing wrong, at least nothing that Alex could see. Why would Barrow be more interested in the presence of the Bow Street Runners than Chatham? The marquess was the one who had made false accusations. Alex looked to Peter and waited for an explanation, biting down hard on his tongue to keep himself still. Peter may not explain things as briskly as he would like, but he always—always—had every aspect of a situation well thought out and handled before anyone else understood the complete scenario.

Peter turned to Chatham before responding. “Lord Chatham, I believe Mr. Frost can explain things to your satisfaction. He has some business with your friend, Lord Barrow.” Peter gave a no-nonsense nod of his head in Frost’s direction and took a seat before the fire.

Frost cleared his throat and eyed Barrow. Dennison held Barrow still, with the help of Sir Jonas. “My lords, it seems His Highness, the Prince Regent, has some questions for the earl.”

Alex’s eyes felt like they would pop free from their sockets, but he kept silent. Questions from the Prince Regent? That could only mean treason. He stared first at Barrow pulling against his captors, and then at Chatham, whose nervous eyes shifted about the room.

“Unhand me,” said Barrow. “I demand to be released at once. This is preposterous.” Nervous laughter escaped him, apparently against his will.

“I’m afraid, my lord, that is impossible,” said Frost. “You got away from us once, but you won’t escape again. You won’t be leaving my sight until His Highness’s questions have been satisfied.”

Dennison tightened his grip on Barrow’s elbow and shoved him back into place when the man pulled away, yet again, in another desperate attempt to free himself. Alex turned his attention to Chatham, whose shifty eyes had started to twitch. The marquess stood and slunk toward the door. Alex itched to manhandle him and force him to stay put, but Derek’s hands against his shoulders pressed him more firmly to his seat. Sir Jonas left Barrow’s side and slid into a position before the door, blocking Chatham’s escape.

Sweat covered Barrow’s brow and dripped from his nose onto the once-crisp linen of his cravat. “Will not escape again? Ha ha! You can’t be serious.” He searched the room but found no one sensitive to his plight—not even Chatham at this point, who seemed more inclined to preserve his own person. Unsurprising. The man always looked after himself first, as made imminently evident by his handling Grace’s situation.

Barrow faced Somerton. “Your Grace, there must be some mistake. Whatever could—could—could these men believe—I—I’ve done?” His voice rose in pitch, almost with each word. Then he let out a whinny-like laugh, followed by a snort.

Peter never faltered. “Mr. Frost, why don’t you detail His Highness’s complaints and questions for the earl, while witnesses are present? I believe now is as good a time as any.”

Alex moved to the edge of his seat. He didn’t want to miss a word of this.

Frost inclined his head before turning to face the center of the room. “Your Grace. My lords. His lordship, the Earl of Barrow has been accused of treason against the crown.” Just as expected. Though somewhat unexpected as well. Alex’s luck was beginning to look up, indeed.

Barrow jerked violently against his captors, only to be forcibly held in his seat.

Chatham moved three steps backward without a glance and bumped into Sir Jonas, who planted his hands on the marquess’s shoulders. This action both steadied the man and hindered any further attempts at escape.

Alex’s pulse quickened, but he remained seated. He refused to move his gaze from Barrow. Chatham could be dealt with later. Barrow would pay now.

Frost ignored the commotion around him and continued. “His Highness, the Prince Regent, has reason to believe his informant. He’s agreed to allow Lord Barrow a trial before his peers. However, Lord Barrow may not leave England again, most certainly not to travel to the continent. His Highness will not chance Lord Barrow’s continued involvement in illicit activity.”

Chatham interrupted. “Treason?” He overplayed his attempt at conveying shock, especially since treason had already been mentioned a few moments earlier. Chatham had no hope of convincing Alex that he wasn’t fully informed of all of Barrow’s dealings. These two had worked in concert. Now he need only determine how Grace’s kidnapping played into this and how it would serve Chatham.

Frost glared at the marquess before continuing. “Yes. Treason. Dennison and I’ve been charged by His Highness with the task of collecting Lord Barrow for his trial.”

“I refuse to go with you,” Barrow said. “These charges are ridiculous—completely unfounded. Somerton, you cannot believe the man.”

Peter simply raised an eyebrow, only for a moment. Just long enough to convey his disdain. He said nothing.

Neil, however, could no longer remain silent. “Barrow, you bloody dunderhead, you’ve done a poor job of hiding your tracks.” Contempt for the man burned through his eyes like daggers. “Half the regulars at White’s have been curious about your frequent ‘holidays’ to the Continent for some time. And more than a handful have whispered about your dealings with the French a bit too loudly in recent times for any guise of secrecy.”

For a moment, Alex exchanged roles with his younger brother. He grabbed hold of an arm to forestall the hotheaded Neil from charging across the room and assaulting Barrow. If anyone was going to strike the man today, it would be him, by God.

“Your so-called ‘business’ with the Marquis de Fontaine put my brother in danger, you bastard. His regiment was in Leipzig!” Neil pulled so hard against Alex’s arm that Derek moved in front of the youngest man. His broad frame blocked any attempt at an attack.

Peter raised a hand to silence Neil. “Let these men handle Barrow. We don’t know—”

“We don’t know?” Neil interrupted. “We most certainly do know the dangers Richard faces every day.”

“I was saying, Neil,” Peter said as a gentle admonishment, “we don’t know enough of Barrow’s involvement in any dealings with the French to become his judge and jury. It’s best to allow these men to take him for a visit with the Regent and a trial. Allow justice to be served.”

Justice, indeed. There wasn’t a doubt in Alex’s mind he’d be found guilty, even if he was innocent of treason. But Barrow was guilty of enough else that Alex could feel no pity for the man. Not that he would want to.

He tried to sort through everything happening around him. Barrow was a traitor, at least in Prinny’s eyes. He would never go free. He would never marry Grace. That meant Alex could marry Grace. He would make it happen. He had to.

He was oblivious to the conversation that continued until Barrow burst free from Dennison’s grasp and bowled over Chatham to get through the door. Alex came back to himself when Sir Jonas shouted, “Deuced hell,” before all three men fell in a pile to the floor.

Dennison and Frost joined the fray and wrestled Barrow into submission. In the intervening melee, Derek, Neil, and Alex each let go of their holds on the others. For the first time since they had entered the library, Alex was free to do as he pleased.

Neil hauled Barrow to his feet and held him while Frost secured the suspected traitor’s hands behind his back with a rope.

Alex took his chance before the man’s hands were fully secured and landed a hard blow to the earl’s jaw. “That,” he spat out, “is for Grace.”

Neil let go of his grasp on the man, and Frost backed away.

Another blow, this time to his nose. Barrow moaned and spit blood in Alex’s face before he slid to the floor in pain, moving his hands to rub the injured areas. “That one is for Priscilla.”

No one rushed to Barrow’s aid. They all just stood aside and watched.

“You dare to strike me over two whores? And while I was bound, no less. Coward.”

Before he could stop himself, Alex swung his heavy, booted foot at Barrow’s stomach. The earl merely crumpled over in pain, unable to even counter with another argument.

Alex backed away and shook the sting from his hand. “That was for Harry,” he said so quietly, he almost didn’t realize it had come from his own lips.

“Your Grace. My lords,” Frost said as he moved once again to Barrow’s side, holding him as though to restrain him further, though there was no need any longer. He was in too much pain to offer much resistance. “We’ll escort the prisoner to the Tower now. His Highness would like to thank you for your loyalty to the crown, Your Grace, but he asks that you keep a healthy eye on Lord Chatham until a determination can be made as to his involvement.”

Through the entire ordeal, Peter hadn’t moved a muscle. He nodded his head to the two Runners. “Of course, Frost. I am at His Highness’s service, as always.”

Frost and Dennison pushed the hunched over Barrow through the doors and away from the ball. Alex waited until the clicks of their heels against the marble floors faded into the background noise of the ballroom.

Chatham stood in a new position near the fire, quivering in fear.

“Well, I believe I’ve had more than enough entertainment for one evening,” Peter said. “Shall we all retire to Hardwicke House and discuss what’s to be done from there?”

The other men mumbled their agreement. With great distaste, Alex noted that Chatham had been included in the general invitation. Peter would honor his commitment, then, to the fullest.

Peter gave Chatham a pointed look. “I’ll only be a moment. I must give my thanks to Lord Anders for the use of his library and his hospitality for the evening. Lord Chatham, you’ll be staying at Hardwicke House for an extended visit.”

The older man looked pained. “Am I to understand this is an order and not a request, then?”

“Understand it as you will. It’s of no concern to me. But you will join us at Hardwicke House.” Peter turned to Derek, then. “Sinclaire, might we have use of your carriage as well, this evening? I don’t believe we have room for everyone in my carriages. We have quite the party returning this evening.”

Derek nodded his assent.

“Excellent. I’ll order them all prepared at once.”

Peter left the library without delay.

Alex could think of only one thing. Grace could never be forced to marry Barrow now.

She was free.

Grace pushed the wave of nausea threatening to overpower her down yet again. She refused to be sick in her uncle’s carriage.

But with each step of the horses, she drew one step closer to London.

One step closer to her fate. To marriage.

To Lord Barrow.

And every step also took her further from everything she loved. Well, not quite everything, to be fair. Aunt Dorothea and Uncle Laurence were with her, traveling to London. They would stay with her as long as possible.

But she had left behind New Hill Cottage, the open hills of Somerton, and a piece of her heart. She had left behind Lord Alexander.

A single tear escaped before she could squelch it, and Grace cringed as she wiped it away.

“Gracie, sweetheart,” Aunt Dorothea said. “Are you quite unwell? Should we stop the carriage and rest for a bit?” The older woman reached across the empty area between them and grasped one of Grace’s hands.

“No, Aunt. Please let us continue.” Why must she have noticed?

A dubious look settled on Aunt Dorothea’s face. “All right. But don’t try to be strong, Gracie. In your condition, a woman must take care to rest. I don’t wish to overtax you, and I am certain your father would understand our late arrival. Even a monster like him has feelings.”

“Dorothea,” Uncle Laurence warned.

“What?” she asked. “They do. Everyone has feelings.” She paused for a beat, lifting a brow at him. “And the man is most certainly a monster, with the way he’s treated Gracie, not to mention how he’s accused us of kidnapping her.”

He said nothing, but gripped his wife’s fingers and squeezed in admonition.

Silence returned to the carriage. Grace stared through the windows at the countryside passing them by and wished the horses would slow their gait, or a wheel would get stuck in a rut in the road, or a highwayman would accost them and delay their arrival in Town.

But none of those things would happen. Grace’s luck did not run that way.

After another long stretch of travel, the driver stopped the team to allow the Kensingtons and Grace to break for a meal. They could have stopped at a posting inn and been served, but they chose instead to picnic. Uncle Laurence claimed he preferred to sit in the bright sun for a time, but Grace believed he ordered the picnic for a different reason.

They were nearing Town—and society—and Grace was in no frame of mind to handle polite conversation with strangers, who may or may not have heard of her and her situation—or rather, any number of situations she had recently found herself in. Uncle Laurence must be sensitive to her plight.

So they picnicked on cold meats and cheeses by the side of the road under the shade of nearby trees.

“It’s quite a lovely day we’re having,” Aunt Dorothea said. “Isn’t it? I do love the sunshine, and we’ve had frightfully little of it in Somerton lately. Oh dear, Laurence, I believe I’ve stained my frock.”

Aunt Dorothea rubbed at what might be a grass stain, but was possibly nothing but a damp spot on the green traveling gown. “Well, I believe we’ll be in Town before suppertime. Lud, do you think Chatham will have supper prepared for us? Oh, I am giving the man too much credit. He’s accused us of a most atrocious crime, so he won’t be so civilized as to feed us. I wish we’d sent word ahead to our staff to expect us. No doubt, they won’t have a meal prepared when we get there. I wonder where Lord Rotheby is staying while he is in London.”

Lord Rotheby? In London? Grace’s heart palpitated and a flush burned her cheeks.

If the earl was in London, surely Lord Alexander hadn’t allowed the older man to travel alone. However he may have behaved toward Grace, she believed him to be an honorable man. Why, he’d even tried to marry her, the foolish man, after their encounter in Bath.

That wonderful, wonderful encounter.

Which she must forget. Grace chided herself for letting her thoughts run away with her. She’d denied his pursuit and was as clear about it as she knew how to be. She had no right to hope he might be in London, and even less right to wish she might encounter him there. Not to mention wishing he would repeat his offer.

Alas, she did wish it would happen. If she could only see him again, even if for the barest of moments, perhaps she could convince herself he was not the honorable, kind, warmhearted man she imagined. Perhaps he would prove to be abominable and mean spirited, like Lord Barrow. Or neglectful, like her own father. Perhaps the pain would die, and she could stop loving him.

But perhaps she would accept him.

“Gracie. Gracie.” Aunt Dorothea feigned impatience. “Laurence, the girl is lost in thought again. As much as she gathers wool, she should have a blanket knitted before nightfall.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt,” Grace said. She hated to be caught with her head in the clouds, but it happened more and more frequently. She could only blame her nerves. Or perhaps her pregnancy. Likely both. “What were you saying?”

“I asked if you had finished with your luncheon so we can continue. But please, take your time. I’m in no rush to arrive at Chatham House and I doubt you are either. Why, look at that. You’ve hardly taken a bite. Eat up now. You aren’t eating only for yourself, you know.”

Aunt Dorothea puttered about and placed leftover food in the basket to tidy the area before they departed. Grace ate her meal without gusto, simply performing the duty at hand.

She had no desire to hurry their arrival in London. She didn’t want to see Lord Alexander.

Oh, how she lied to herself. If only she could believe the lies.