“Why do you think I would give you any information?” he said, the fury still in his voice.

“Because he has been hired to kill Lord Evan.”

He snorted. “What makes you think that?”

“He told me,” I said flatly, pushing away the memory of the man’s hands upon my breasts. “Did he say who had sent him to you?” I closed my hands into fists, trying to contain the urgency in my voice. From what I had observed, Deele would withhold the information if he knew how important it was to me. And to Evan.

“I repeat, why would I tell you anything? After what you and my brother have done.”

“Because Mulholland has used you as a way of getting to your brother. He tricked and manipulated you, Lord Deele. A common thieftaker. He is probably still laughing about it now.”

Deele drew a breath through his teeth. Was it more rage at me, or at the thought that a man of Mulholland’s station had manipulated a marquess? I hoped, with all my being, it was the latter.

“Whitmore,” he finally said. “He said Charles Whitmore had sent him.” He turned and took the step into the carriage.

I stood with my hands still clenched as the name tolled through me. Charles Whitmore. Undersecretary of the Alien Department. Why had he hired Mulholland?

The footman closed the coach door, flipped up the step, then climbed into the seat beside the driver. With a snap of the whip, the carriage jolted forward, wheels and hooves grinding across the gravel.

I turned to go back into the house and saw Evan standing in the shadows of the doorway, arms wrapped around his body. He had followed me.

“I heard,” he said. “Charles Whitmore. I do not understand. I have never met the man.”

I slid my hand into his, my cold fingers curled into his warmth. “Well, at least we have a name now.”

But it was a name that did not make sense. Whitmore was at least ten years younger than Evan and would have been a child when the duel was fought. Why on earth did he want Lord Evan Belford dead?

39

The victory celebration for the emancipation of Lady Hester from her brother’s tyranny was necessarily short. Both she and Miss Grant were exhausted, and the ladies had hosted too many people for far too long.

After a toast, we bade our good-byes. Correspondence and visits were promised, and then Julia, Weatherly, and I were back in the phaeton, with Evan and Mr. Kent riding beside us. George and Lord Alvanley followed in the gig they had hired from the Hand Inn, where they were staying.

We parted company at the gates of that hostelry, George touching the brim of his impeccable beaver hat to me as they clattered across the cobbled courtyard.

Which reminded me of the odd promise I had given to Mr. Brummell. I told Julia and Weatherly what had transpired.