Copyright © 2013 by Grace Burrowes Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc. Cover design by The Killion Group Cover image © Hot Damn Stock Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. P. O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410 (630) 961-3900 Fax: (630) 961-2168 www.sourcebooks.com Contents Front Cover Title Page Copyright One Two Three Four Five Six About the Author To the deaf and hearing impaired One In a sea of chatter and movement, silence and stillness caught Archer Portmaine’s attention. The ladies at the front of the shadowed box might have been any pretty pair enjoying a night at the orchestra, the elder exhibiting the fashionable attire of a young matron of means. The younger woman held Archer’s focus when he ought to have been scanning the other boxes for his quarry. She did this not by craning her neck or leaning over the railing, but rather by unhurried and quiet inspection of the glittering, laughing, bejeweled throng. Archer had the niggling sense he’d seen her before, in a different setting. He might forget the occasional face, but he did not forget the graceful turn of a woman’s bare shoulders, or a chin that shaded toward determined but stopped short of stubborn. Her profile was classic, her brown hair tidily coiled at her nape, her cream dress the very next thing to plain. She was quietly lovely, and yet, everything about her begged to be passed over at a glance, everything except for her stillness and the way she held her own counsel in a venue where talking—loudly and cleverly—was more a part of the program than the music. If the lady could chatter a bit while she perused the audience, or send the occasional flirtatious glance to a random, lucky swain below, she might make a passable spy. Which notion would insult any proper lady mightily. Archer left off watching the quiet young woman, lest even lurking at the back of this box he’d be spotted by those whose paths he’d rather not cross. He shrank closer to the velvet curtains, glad for whatever breeze had doused the lights of the nearest chandelier. A man in pursuit ought always to be alert for pursuers and avoid even so fascinating a distraction as a pretty young woman’s silence. *** “Did you know Valentine dedicated the final work on the program to you?” Amid the hum and bustle of the orchestra tuning up and the audience gossiping and greeting one another, Morgan James was barely able to discern her sister’s soft words. “What young lady wouldn’t want the Windham musical genius dedicating a work to her?” Especially a young lady who owed the recovery of her hearing to the selfsame musician? Anna, Countess of Westhaven, studied her program by the limited light of the theatre’s chandeliers. “You are over Valentine, aren’t you? Please say you are.” “I am.” Morgan felt a curious relief to say the words honestly, a weight winging aloft like the ascending scale of a flute warming up. “Valentine Windham was the first gentleman I met who behaved like a gentleman, and he was such a wonderful contrast to our late brother.” Why had she not realized these things before? “He is obsessed with his music though, enthralled with it,” Morgan went on, “and Ellen understands this about him. I was alone in my own silent world for so long, I cannot fathom seeking an isolated existence on purpose, regardless of how much beautiful sound I could fill it with.” “You are very sensible, Sister. Westhaven said I was fretting for nothing.” Anna’s husband often made confident pronouncements about his family, and he was right an aggravating percentage of the time. “I consider Valentine a dear friend,” Morgan said, “and I’m certain he holds me in the same regard. The last piece is a piano sonata. I look forward to hearing it.” She would also look forward to having the evening over, to being alone in the commodious chambers Westhaven’s family provided her, where—oddly enough —she’d begun to enjoy the silence and solitude. Anna rose gracefully. “I’ll fetch Westhaven from the corridor. He gets caught up by his father’s cronies from the Lords and is too polite to leave them talking to themselves, which is their proper fate on what ought to be a social outing.” The pretty, dark-haired countess bustled out of the box, off to rescue some old curmudgeon from Lord Westhaven’s endless fascination with what he called economics, leaving Morgan to wonder at her own proper fate. Spinsterhood loomed close at hand, and likely a return of deafness not long after that. The physician had warned her, after all. A shadow along the back wall of the box moved, distracting Morgan from her dismal thoughts. She caught the scents of rain on wool, laced with cedar. Cool scents, masculine and beguilingly pleasant. And yet, those scents belonged to someone who had no business in that dark corner. People chatted and strolled in the corridor only a few yards away, so Morgan couldn’t be alarmed, but neither was she pleased at the intrusion. “Make yourself known, sir, and explain why you lurk in the Windham family’s private box.” As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Morgan made out a few more details: height, blond hair, broad shoulders. Westhaven’s plummy baritone came drifting in from the passage, followed by Anna’s quieter tones, something about not leaving Morgan alone. The intruder pressed a finger to his lips, a signal for silence, then winked and blew Morgan a kiss. His teeth gleamed in a smile, audacious behavior indeed for a trespasser. Anna sailed into the box, followed by her husband at a more decorous pace. “My love, I was not lecturing old Quimbey, I was engaged in Socratic dialogue such as men of reason and intellect often enjoy with one another.” Westhaven did not sound as if he were defending himself, but Morgan knew her sister’s husband well. Next, he’d start in with the nuzzling and cozening, and sure enough, as he assisted Anna into her seat at the front of the box, he leaned down closer than the situation warranted. “You were about to take him on yourself, weren’t you, dearest Wife? You’re as inclined to rational discourse as any member of either House. Morgan will support me in this observation.” The earl was subtle about it, but managed to land his lips on Anna’s neck right there in the theatre box with a stranger looking on. Morgan turned and rose, intending to take the stranger to task again… only to find he no longer lurked in the shadows. The smiling, kiss-blowing, silent man who bore the scent of fresh night air and northern forests had simply vanished. *** Valentine Windham crossed the green room and possessed himself of Morgan James’s hand. “My dear, you are looking delectable, as usual.” He bowed low but did not presume to kiss her knuckles. “Panford, allow me to appropriate the lady’s company for a moment. I cannot take my leave without hearing her opinion of the night’s performance.” Val kept his tone jovial, though he’d spoken nothing less than the truth. Panford was a talented, handsome cellist—also quite married and the sole support of a wife and several small children. Val tucked Morgan’s hand around his arm and waited just long enough for Panford to stammer his parting. “The performance was delightful,” Morgan said. “The Sixth is a lovely piece, cheerful and lively.” Val walked her in the direction of the refreshment table. “And the piano sonata?” Morgan had a sense of reserve Val had taken some while to puzzle out. A person deprived of sound for ten years learned a quality of focus that the hearing population never acquired. Despite the restoration of her hearing, Morgan yet had that stillness, an utter calm that was unusual in a woman with only a few Seasons to her name. “In the first two movements, you were trying to create silence with sound,” she said. “That is quite a challenge.” He’d been trying to re-create her world, her calm. “Did I succeed?” She smiled up at him, a winsome flash of teeth and benevolence. “Oh, yes, Valentine. You succeeded, and the robust, romping final movement was a pure delight. I do thank you.” Her smile allowed something inside him to unknot, to come to a restful cadence, for Morgan’s discernment regarding music was as keen as it was honest. He’d tried thinking of her as a sister, but she wasn’t quite, and yet, as young as she was, he’d never considered pursuing her with marriage in mind. “Morgan, would you thank me for introducing you to that blond fellow by the mirror?” He’d spoken softly, as if they flirted or exchanged confidences—or as if Val might have been willing for her to ignore his question. “Who is he?” Val suffered a small pang of chagrin that she didn’t dismiss the man altogether, though the fellow had been studying her for some minutes in repeated, all too casual passing glances. “I thought you preferred the tall, dark- haired, handsome types.” “With green eyes and bottomless musical talent? Those fellows are fine to have as friends, they are wonderful to have as friends, in fact, but whoever he is, he’s a credit to his tailor.” The blighter was good-looking enough, if a woman’s tastes ran to golden hair, aristocratic features on the skinny, aesthetic side, and eyes of an infantile blue all wrapped up in conservative evening attire. Women, in their well- intended generosity, might call those eyes captivating. “He is Archer Portmaine, a cousin to my sister Maggie’s husband. He was Hazelton’s business partner, also his heir until the baby showed up. You might have been introduced to him at Ben and Maggie’s wedding.” Though if Morgan had been introduced to Portmaine, she’d forgotten the encounter—cheering thought. Curiosity lit in Morgan’s eyes at the mention of Portmaine’s role in the business. “He’s an investigator?” “Keep your voice down, if you please. I haven’t any idea what the man’s prospects are. Portmaine might still be employed in such a capacity, but Hazelton himself no longer snoops.” Val hoped. As a man with a wife, a mother, and five sisters taking an interest in his welfare, Val hardly needed one of those sisters marrying a professional investigator. “Introduce us, please.” Morgan sounded very certain. Valentine tended to the civilities, keeping Morgan’s hand on his arm the