Julian was known for having the smartest clothes, setting the current fashion. The young men of his set had their tailors and valets working day and night to copy the cut of his coats, the jet-black color of his hair. But no matter how faithfully they reproduced his look, they remained pale imitations of the original. It wasn’t Julian’s clothes they coveted; it was his devilish appeal, his incisive wit. His shoulders filled out a topcoat quite nicely, but his presence filled rooms.

He would know that feeling again soon—the admiration of a crowd. And if her gamble worked, it just might be his saving grace.

Lily hurried across the square, then the street, and up the steps of Harcliffe House. She stopped in the entry to address the butler. “I’d like the carriage readied, Swift. Quickly, please. I intend to pay a call.”

Swift masked his surprise quite well. Normally, she never paid calls, not on her own. But this was life after Leo—a series of tiny, halting steps toward independence.

While she waited for the carriage, she went back to Leo’s study. Just thinking of her conversation with Julian, not to mention the urgent pleas she must make to Amelia … her mind was awhirl. She sat down at the desk and flipped open the ledger she’d abandoned, hoping to gather some composure from the orderly columns and rows. Leo had never possessed any head for sums or figures, and he couldn’t be bothered to keep watch over the various estate accounts. Rather than trust it all to the stewards, Lily had gladly assumed the responsibility. She adored ledgers. Loved the precise, elegant pen strokes they required, the neat rows of columns and tables, the satisfaction of balancing a month’s expenses and income to the last penny.

Just as she and Leo had balanced each other. From childhood, it had always been this way. Where one of them was weak, the other was strong. His personality was affable and outgoing, while hers was reserved, reflective. After her fever and resulting deafness, they’d settled even further into those roles. Leo handled the social obligations of the marquessate, while she kept the accounts and papers in line. Lily had always been proud of how well they worked as a team. Two halves of a whole; the sum greater than its parts.

But now Leo had died. And she was left with only half a life. She hadn’t cultivated her social side for many years, having apportioned that duty to her brother. His acquaintances were hers; his social circle defined her own. Lily’s own friendships—such as the one she’d shared with Amelia—had withered from neglect.

As for Leo … who could imagine what regrets he might have had? Their lives might have unfolded very differently, had they not depended on each other so much.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the gleam of curving brass. The handle of the topmost desk drawer taunted her.

With impulsive speed, she rose from her chair and closed the door. Retaking her seat, she fished a small, flat key from her chatelaine and unlocked the drawer. She tugged it open, stared into it for a moment. After a pause to draw breath and gather her courage, she removed the packet of letters.

Even though she’d just shut the door not a minute ago, she cast another glance at it now to assure herself of her privacy. It had been a close call, earlier, when Julian had interrupted her. Fortunately, she’d been able to cache the letters and her emotions away without drawing his comment or concern.

She made no attempt to hide those emotions now. With trembling fingers and a hammering pulse, she opened the time-faded paper and read.

Salutations are forbidden me. Closing words are a thing I refuse to contemplate, let alone pen. This is therefore a letter without beginning, without end. A fitting reflection of my love.

My love, my love.

Come soon. I am in torment.

* * *

Julian did indeed have an appointment with his tailors—just not the ones Lily might have supposed, and he took a circuitous route to meet with them.

He bypassed the corners of Bond and Regent Streets, with their many mercers and haberdashers and tailors. On another day he might have stopped in to order a new waistcoat with contrasting embroidery, or a coat with an extra button on the cuff. These small modifications to accepted style were the way he’d harnessed the allegiance of England’s young aristocrats. He now pulled them along on a worsted thread, to the point that the bucks of the ton would wear undyed homespun, if Julian Bellamy declared it the latest thing.

It took him twenty minutes to walk to his relatively modest home, just over the boundary into Bloomsbury. He could have afforded a larger dwelling in a showier part of Town, but this house suited his needs. Its common rooms were unremarkable, cramped, and unsuitable for parties, which absolved him from repaying invitations. The third floor, however, was one vast, lavish bedroom suite, ideal for entertaining female guests singly. Most usefully, at the rear it backed against a busy merchant street.

Upon entering, he followed his habit of proceeding directly to his library. A young man dozed in an armchair by the window, wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Julian recognized him as Levi Harris, one of the runners he’d hired to investigate Leo’s murder. Harris was young but hungry—and reputed to be the best. Leo deserved no less than the best.

The best, however, needed to look alive. Julian slammed the library door.

Harris woke with a start. As his boots hit the floor, he blurted out, “Good morning, Mr. Bellamy.”

“It’s afternoon. News?”

“Nothing much of interest.”

“Tell me everything. I’ll determine what’s of interest.”

Harris told Julian nothing he didn’t already know. He’d also attended the boxing match in Southwark last night. The bout had featured one of the same pugilists who’d fought the night of Leo’s death. The investigator and his men were supposed to be stationed at every exit, watching for anyone who matched the description of Leo’s killers.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harris said. “After that mishap with the bull-baiting, the crowd got away from us. My men and I lingered well after the melee, traced all the nearby streets. We didn’t see any suspicious activity, other than the usual. And no pair of men matching the description.”

Julian nodded his understanding. What description they had was pitiful indeed. The prostitute who’d witnessed the attack could only describe Leo’s killers as two large men in rough clothing; one bald, the other with a Scots accent.

He sank into the rich, tufted leather of his desk chair, deflating with fatigue and frustration. Almost five months since Leo’s death, and despite the discovery of new information and witnesses, he was no closer to the killers now than he had been the day his friend was buried. And so long as the attackers themselves went free, the name of their employer remained secret. Julian had no way of knowing just which of his many enemies had discovered his true identity and ordered his death. He’d been going at it from the wrong angle—trying to ferret out the brutes, rather than the man or men who’d hired them.

“Very well,” he told Harris. “That will be all.”

“Until tomorrow then?”

Julian shook his head. “No. I mean, that will be all. We’re finished with this.”

“Finished?” Harris rose to his feet. “Sir, you mean to abandon the investigation? Leave the murder unsolved?”

He obviously didn’t like the idea, and Julian respected the man’s dedication. But they couldn’t go on in this manner any longer when it yielded no meaningful results. And he most certainly couldn’t give Harris the information necessary to pursue a different tack. From here, Julian proceeded alone.

“I mean,” he said, “your services will no longer be required. Send me an accounting of your charges and expenses, and I’ll see that you’re compensated with all due speed.”

Harris opened and shut his mouth a few times, as if he wanted to argue back. He ultimately decided against it. “As you wish, Mr. Bellamy.” With a perfunctory bow, he left.

Alone, Julian sorted through the correspondence that had amassed atop his desk. Invitations, of various kinds, comprised the bulk of the missives. Everything from “Your presence is cordially requested …” to “Darling, my husband will be away …” No matter that he hadn’t accepted an invitation of either sort in months, they still heaped his blotter daily.

With a weary sigh, he tossed them all into the grate. He never had answered the things anyway. He simply appeared at events where and when the mood struck. Ironically, this complete disregard for etiquette had only enhanced his popularity. For when he did make an appearance, he did so in grand style, whether playing to a crowd of hundreds or entertaining an audience of one.

An appearance by Julian Bellamy, he strove to ensure, ranked among a certain class of delights. Rather like roasted chestnuts at Christmas, or simultaneous orgasms. Not so rare as to be mythical, never so commonplace as to become boring. Dependably satisfying, occasionally transcendent. In sum, an experience to which no one could pretend ambivalence.

Save Julian himself, of course. He pretended ambivalence very well indeed.

It was a talent shared by his house staff. As Julian entered his bedroom suite, his valet greeted him from behind a sporting newspaper. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Dillard,” Julian greeted him dryly. “Oh, please. Don’t get up.”

A soft grunt was his only reply.

“Is my bath drawn?”

The newspaper rustled. “I reckon it is.”

Dillard was the most spoiled, useless valet in all London. Normally, Julian demanded competence and efficiency from all people in his employ, but he made an exception for his personal servants. In this house, indolence and a marked lack of curiosity were desirable traits. Julian only kept Dillard on for appearances. Or rather, not for appearances. That was a valet’s usual post, of course—tending his gentleman employer’s appearance in all particulars: bathing, shaving, attire, and more. But where his own appearance was concerned, Julian attended to every detail on his own, save the laundering, pressing, and boot-blacking.

He lowered his weight to a bench and removed his boots. “I’m off to bed,” he told Dillard, setting the boots neatly to one side. “Not to be disturbed. See that these are polished by tonight.”

Another grunt.

Julian left the man to his paper and crossed into his dressing room. It was a large space, formerly a bedchamber in its own right, but he’d had it fitted with custom shelving and mirrors. He tossed his befouled topcoat in the grate and stripped to his skin. After a hasty bath and a close shave, he wrapped an Oriental-patterned silk banyan about his torso.

With grave deliberation, he selected a set of clothing for that evening. He had a new waistcoat in pigeon’s blood red, and this he laid aside for pressing, along with a royal blue topcoat with brass trim and charcoal-gray pantaloons. From his row of sixteen hats, he selected a jaunty blue felt with a red band. The color combination was revolting. But he needed to draw notice tonight, even more so than usual.

Though he’d opposed the idea initially, on reflection he saw the potential in this social scheme of Lily’s. His investigative efforts were going nowhere. By withdrawing from public life, he’d given his enemy a sense of complacency.

These were the inescapable facts: In trying to kill Julian, someone had killed Leo instead. If Julian wanted justice for Leo’s murder, he would have to draw the cowardly rat out of hiding—by making himself the bait.

He’d start with dinner tonight, then a genial round of the clubs. All very friendly, all very tame—even if he had to sit on his hands when Morland drew near, just to keep it so. He would remain on good behavior through a few scattered, sedate appearances—the three evenings he’d promised Lily. Once he’d reestablished his place at the top of every guest list and Lily’s marital prospects were assured … only then would Julian Bellamy lay his trap.

At the moment, however, Julian Bellamy was retiring to bed.