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regarded with higher affection or respect. They had faced violent death together in India and Portugal, and upon occasion each had risked his life for the other. Consequently, Lovejoy was more than just his valet.
    Meeting Lovejoy’s eyes, Nicolas shook his head slightly and murmured, “It’s nothing—continue as you were. I still plan for us to leave as soon as possible tomorrow afternoon.”
    Walking down the grand staircase, Nicolas pondered all the various reasons for a visit from the duke of Roxbury but could come up with nothing that made any sense. He hardly even knew the older man, although he knew that Roxbury and his father had been friends and that Randal had counted the duke’s heir, Viscount Norwood, as one of his closest companions in debauchery. He could remember no more than a half a dozen times that he’d ever exchanged more than polite conversation with the man who was now waiting for him in his library.
    It wasn’t that Nicolas didn’t know of Roxbury; everyone knew the duke of Roxbury. He was a wealthy and powerful man and a notable and admired figure about town. He was also, it was whispered, a man not to cross as well as the exquisitely delicate hand behind many a diplomatic, and sometimes not-so-diplomatic, coup. He was reputed to have tentacles in places and events where one would never expect to find a lord of the realm, and his power with those in high places was enormous—it was said that not one important event occurred in England, or anywhere else, for that matter, that Roxbury did not know about . . . or hadn’t arranged. So what, Nicolas wondered, does he want with me?
    Entering the library, he found the object of his speculations, a tall, silver-haired gentleman looking very elegant in a black velvet jacket and pearl gray kerseymere breeches, sipping a snifter of brandy. He appeared quite at his ease and was comfortably ensconced in a channel-backed chair near the fire in the marble-fronted fireplace against the far wall. The merrily leaping flames brought out the rich tones of the many-colored leather-bound volumes that lined the walls of the room and intensified the hues of the scarlet-and-gold Aubusson carpet that lay upon the floor.
    Looking up and seeing Nicolas standing there just inside the doorway, Roxbury smiled, his deceptively sleepy gray eyes betraying nothing. “Ah, you are at home—your butler didn’t want to commit himself when I arrived, but he very kindly saw to my comfort before he went in search of you.”
    Crossing the room and helping himself to some of the brandy that reposed in a crystal decanter nearby, Nicolas smiled faintly. “He is not normally quite so hospitable to strangers who come calling at this time of night.”
    â€œHmm. I suppose not, but then I am hardly a stranger, my boy.”
    Sipping the brandy, Nicolas seated himself across from the duke. “Perhaps not a stranger, sir, but I must admit that I was surprised when Buffington brought your card to me. What can I do for you?”
    â€œHmm, I think, perhaps, it is a case of what we can do to help each other....”
    Nicolas looked startled. “Help each other?”
    â€œYes. You see, there is a little annoyance in Kent, which happens, we believe, to have its headquarters somewhere in the vicinity of Sherbourne Court. It has occurred to us that it would be convenient if we had someone in the area to investigate the situation more closely.” Roxbury regarded Nicolas over the rim of his snifter. “Someone we could trust implicitly and whose sudden appearance would not arouse comment, or something even more, er, dire.” His silvery hair gleaming in the candlelight, looking ever so much like a mischievous cherub, Roxbury smiled seraphically at the younger man across from him. “And who would question the return to his country estate of the newest holder of a long and illustrious title, the earl of