“Why can’t you marry her, Ashworth?” Bellamy asked. “You’re a lord, aren’t you?”

“I’ve lately inherited a barony. It consists of a worthless expanse of moorland in Devonshire and a house that burnt to the ground fourteen years ago. I had to sell out my commission just to pay the creditors.”

“Forgive me,” Lady Amelia said, “I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

Forgive her? Spencer would have thanked her, profusely. A change in conversation was all too welcome.

“But I knew your name was familiar,” she went on, speaking to Ashworth, “and then you mentioned the commission … Are you by chance Lieutenant Colonel St. Maur?”

“I am. And yes, I knew your brother.”

“I thought so. He mentioned you in his letters, always spoke of your bravery. Were you …” Her voice trailed off. “Were you with him, at Waterloo?”

“No, not at the end. He served in a different battalion. But I can tell you he was a fine man, and an excellent officer. Admired by those who served under him, well regarded by his superiors. A credit to his family and country.”

“Thank you.”

Lady Amelia seemed satisfied, but to Spencer’s ears, this speech was flat, unconvincing. Rehearsed. As though Ashworth had spoken those exact words many, many times. He probably had. Perhaps to him, tonight’s errand—notifying a young lady of her brother’s untimely death—was nothing but routine. It would explain this new gravity in his demeanor. Spencer didn’t remember him being so solemn, before.

Not that they’d spent much time conversing at Eton. Difficult to chat while throwing punches.

“Where is his body?” Lady Amelia suddenly asked. “Leo’s, I mean.”

“At my home,” Bellamy answered. “My men are keeping watch until he can be brought to the undertaker’s.”

“Lily will want to see him.”

“No, my lady. She won’t.”

“She will, I assure you. No matter what his injuries. I …” Her voice broke. “I would have given much, for the opportunity to see Hugh. His death would have been easier to accept, I think.”

In that moment, Spencer became extremely—there was no better word for it—aware of Lady Amelia d’Orsay. His team of blacks hied left, pulling the carriage around a sharp corner, and she fell against him. Soft, warm. Her lavender scent was richer than it had been earlier. As she righted herself, a drop of moisture landed on the strip of exposed skin between his glove and his sleeve.

She was weeping.

Weeping, in absolute silence, presumably too proud to ask for a handkerchief after she’d pressed hers on Spencer in the garden. His hand strayed to his side pocket, where her precise, cheerful stitches secretly decorated the black satin lining. It was her own fault she was without it—he hadn’t wanted the thing in the first place.

But now, perversely, he didn’t want to give it back.

“That settles it then,” said Bellamy. “Morland will marry her.”

Spencer said, “I refuse.”

“You can’t refuse.”

“I just did.”

Bellamy leaned forward. “It’s in the Stud Club code. Neither Ashworth nor I are suitable prospects, as you’ve heard. If you hadn’t so methodically reduced the number of our members over recent weeks, there might be other candidates. But you did. And as you are now seven-tenths of the club, the burden of responsibility falls on you.”

“I don’t understand,” Lady Amelia said. “How can one man be seven-tenths of a club?”

“It’s the tokens, my lady,” said Bellamy. “You see, Leo purchased an exceptional stallion some years ago. Osiris was once the finest racehorse in England. He’s too old to race anymore, but still valuable as a stud horse. Many gentlemen were asking the favor of breeding rights, and Leo devised the Stud Club scheme as a lark. If you knew Leo, you know how he loved a good joke.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “When he and my brother were boys, they once stole the clapper from the church bell just so they could sleep in on Sunday morning.”

Bellamy smiled. “Yes, that sounds like Leo. Which brother of yours was this? Lord Beauvale? Or Jack?” When she did not immediately answer, the man added, “Or—God, I’m sorry. Not the one who died in Belgium?”

“No, not Hugh. None of those, actually. This was my brother Michael. He’s an officer in the Navy now.”

“Good Lord. Just how many of you are there?” Spencer regretted the question instantly. What had possessed him to ask it? Why the devil should he care?

The longer Lady Amelia went without answering, the further the accusatory hush spread through the carriage: Badly done, Morland. Badly done. Truly, he was capable of civil conversation. Just not at any time before, during, or for several hours following a ball.

At last, she answered. “There were six of us, once. Now only five. I am the only daughter.” She paused, perhaps waiting to hear what rude-mannered question would be hurled at her next. When none came, she prompted, “Please continue, Mr. Bellamy.”

“Right. Leo had ten tokens fashioned from brass and distributed them to close friends. Possession of a token entitled a man to send mares to Osiris to be mated. But as a matter of club code, the tokens could never be bartered, purchased, or given away. They could only be won in a game of chance.”

“At cards,” she said.

“Cards, dice, wagers of any sort. That handful of misshapen brass tokens became the most coveted currency in London. Everyone wanted a share of Osiris, of course. But more than that, they wanted to be a part of the club. The fraternity, the camaraderie … there’s a certain cachet now, among gentlemen of our set, to calling oneself a member of the Stud Club. Not many clubs can be so exclusive as to permit only ten members, and winning a token meant that luck or wits, or both, were with you.” Bellamy shot Spencer a cutting look. “Then Morland here came along and ruined the fun. He’s collected seven of the ten tokens now. The remaining three belong to me, Ashworth here, and Leo, of course.”

The seat cushion resettled as Lady Amelia pivoted in Spencer’s direction. “But why would he do that?”

Bellamy said, “Care to answer the lady, Your Grace?”

Spencer stared hard out the carriage window. “Isn’t it obvious? I want the horse.”

“But Mr. Bellamy has said, one token is sufficient for securing breeding privileges. Why insist on obtaining them all? Why such greed?”

Spencer heard the accusation in her voice. She blamed his “greed” for her brother’s debt. “Where Osiris is concerned, I am not interested in breeding privileges. I am interested in possession. I don’t like to share.”

Bellamy shook his head. “There you have it, Lady Amelia. His Grace is uninterested in brotherhood, friendship, the preservation of a fixture in London society. He only cares for the horseflesh involved. I tell you, Morland—you may not like to share, but you’ll have to. You’re not getting my token unless you pry it from my cold, dead hands. The Stud Club was Leo’s creation, and I’ll not allow you to destroy his legacy.”

“But you do want me to marry his sister.”

“No. Er, yes.” Bellamy growled with frustration. “I mean, I do not want it. I wish to God there were someone—anyone—else. But there isn’t.”

Lady Amelia made a strange, inarticulate noise. Did it convey dismay? Frustration? Amusement? At least she wasn’t weeping any longer.

Clearly, Bellamy could not translate her outburst any better than Spencer could. Cocking his head, he eyed the two of them carefully. “That is, unless you are already engaged. Did we interrupt something on the terrace back there?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, laughing as she did. “Whatever you interrupted, it was not that.”

“Then, Your Grace, honor compels you to make an offer to Lily.”

“Excuse me,” said Lady Amelia, “but precisely what is honorable about deciding a woman’s future without so much as soliciting her opinion? If Lily wanted to marry, she might have done so years ago. We are not living in the Dark Ages, sirs. A lady’s consent is generally considered a prerequisite before any wedding plans are made.”

“Yes, but even in these modern times, sometimes circumstances—such as a death or impending poverty—make a lady’s decision for her.”

“I cannot speak for Lily, Mr. Bellamy. But I can tell you, I have faced such circumstances. And they have never made the decisions for me.”

So, Spencer thought to himself, Lady Amelia had received offers of marriage. And refused them. He had been wondering whether her spinsterhood was a condition arrived at by choice, or merely from a lack of alternatives.

Damn it, why was he wondering about her? Why did he feel this need to know everything about an impertinent, managing, none-too-pretty female? But he did. Oh, he did not want to engage in anything so gauche or peril-fraught as inquiry. He merely wanted a reference—the comprehensive codex of all things Amelia Claire d’Orsay. A chart of her ancestry back to the Norman invaders. The catalogue listing every book she’d ever read. A topographical map indicating the precise location of every freckle on her skin.

Ashworth spoke. “We’ve arrived.”

The carriage rolled to a quiet halt before Harcliffe Manor. As they waited for the footman to open the door, Bellamy leaned forward and spoke directly to Spencer.

“Lily may be deaf, but she is not stupid. She reads lips, and she speaks with diction every bit as aristocratic as yours. Look at her when you speak; that’s all that is required. Do not raise your voice or speak in simplistic terms, as if she were your senile great-aunt. Do not talk about her as if she isn’t in the room. Do not treat her as anything less than your social and intellectual equal.”

Spencer bristled. “Why are you directing all this admonishment at me?”

“Because before this night’s through, you will have a private audience with her. You will make Lily an offer, Morland. You will. Or by God, I’ll call you out.”

Chapter Three

“A duel?” Amelia cried. “Whatever for? So we will have two deaths tonight, instead of one?”

Ignoring her, the duke said icily, “Just try it, Bellamy. I will take pleasure in prying that token from your cold, dead hands.”

Really, these men were impossible.

When the carriage door swung open, Amelia rose from her seat and bustled between Bellamy and Morland, who sat trading murderous glares. As she exited the coach, the men followed her.

Rushing up to claim the front stoop, she stood blocking the door and addressed them firmly, in the tone her mother had used to address her quarreling brothers. If these grown men were going to behave like boys squabbling over marbles, someone with sense had to take charge. For Lily’s sake.

“Hold a moment, if you please. Before we go in, I will have my say.”

The three men stared up at her, and Amelia’s resolve began to waver. They may have been behaving like children, but they were, all three of them, quite large, powerful, and intimidating men. A duke, a warrior, a scoundrel. She was unused to commanding the attention of such men. La, she was unused to commanding the attention of any men, aside from her own brothers. Her navel was still turning cartwheels whenever she so much as thought of glancing in the duke’s direction. And thanks to the smoky, amber glow of the carriage lamp, she was getting her first clear look at Lord Ashworth and Mr. Bellamy.

What she saw did not put her at ease.

Ashworth was enormous, in every respect—tall, broad, imposing. A dramatic scar sliced from his temple to his cheekbone. The blow that caused it must have narrowly missed his eye. But for all Ashworth had the look of a marauding pirate, she felt safer with him than with Bellamy. Despite his rakishly mussed hair, Mr. Bellamy’s clothing and manner were polished—so polished, they gave the impression of slickness. There was such a thing as a man too handsome to be trusted.