He rolled out of bed and, pulling the bell cord, staggered into his dressing room to attend to his morning ablutions.

It was while he was sitting in the armchair as Tremayne was shaving him that a faint thought wended its way through the fogged labyrinth of his mind and suddenly stood up and caught his attention.

“My arse?” he roared, startling Tremayne into dumping the basin of warm water down the earl’s front. “She had Crouch in admiring my arse?”

“I really couldn’t say, m’lord. I wasn’t present. Would you like me to consult Crouch about this grave question?”

“Don’t be smart, Tremayne,” Noble snapped and allowed his shirt to be removed, the water mopped up, and a fresh garment reapplied.

“My arse,” he said later as he strode down the hallway and leaped down the stairs. Midway to the breakfast room he passed his son.

“Good morning, Papa,” Nick said.

“Morning, Nick. My arse!” Noble fumed, and stormed into the breakfast room. He would have a thing or two to say to his wife about conducting tours of his person when he was asleep. “Wife, I have a few—oh, hell. Where is she…uh…which one are you?”

“Forsythe, m’lord. I’m one of the Runners her ladyship hired.”

“Oh, yes, well, have you seen Lady Weston this morning?”

The slight little man in livery too large for him shook his head and endeavored to look like a footman. “I haven’t seen her, no, my lord, although I did hear Mr. Crouch say something about a group of lightskirts calling for her.”

The pounding in his head increased. She wouldn’t dare. Not after he had made his feelings clear on the subject and given her a direct order. No, he shook his aching head; it must be some other group of lightskirts she was entertaining. Perhaps she had plans of reforming the entire demimonde. He wouldn’t put it past her to try.

He took the stairs two at a time as he headed toward her sitting room.

Nick was still standing where he had passed him earlier. “Papa, could I talk to you?”

“Later, son. I have to go throttle your mother.” Just see if he wouldn’t. How dare she bring those women back to his house, exposing himself to ridicule and his son to…Noble paused a moment, then shook his head again. He must have imagined it.

He threw open the door of her sitting room, glared at the assembled women therein, and opened his mouth to deliver a scathing lecture that he would make sure Gillian never forgot. She turned to look at him, and the acrimonious words shriveled and died on his lips.

“What is it?” he asked instead, going down on one knee and taking her hand in his. It was cold.

Gillian squeezed his hand and tried to look a little less like the scared rabbit she knew she resembled. “Noble, Mariah is dead.”

“Mariah?”

“Mistress Mariah. Your mistress, that is. Ex-mistress. The ladies here came to tell me that her body was found this morning, bobbing up against a pier. She had been…” Gillian looked as if she would be sick. Noble pulled her into a protective embrace.