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Henderson. The man kept reams of clothes made by the best Bond Street tailors. No Caribbean or Asian needle worker touched his suits; if he tore one, he laid it aside until he had chance to reach England again. Since James Ardmore was a wanted man in Britain, mostly because ofhis habit of boarding English naval vessels and releasing American press-ganged sailors, Henderson did not see his native England very often.
    Even at sea, Henderson tried to keep his hands soft and his manicure perfect. He had finished with honors at Oxford and taken clerical orders, but had gone to sea, disgruntled, because the living he’d expected had been given to someone else. British naval life apparently had not suited him either, because he’d turned up as part of Ardmore’s band several years ago.
    Jacobs, who had completed Eton and Oxford and came from a lineage as gentle-born as Grayson’s own, was nowhere near the snob that Henderson was. Or pretended to be. Grayson had seen glimpses of the steely mind beneath the Henderson who fussed about his perfectly tied cravat. Ardmore put up with him because Henderson was, in fact, a damned good lieutenant.
    The man proved to be in the deserted ground-floor sitting room in a wing chair, absorbed in a newspaper. His mouth sported a blackening bruise, which was probably why he’d chosen to repose in a dim corner of an empty room.
    Mrs. Alastair also had a bruise on her mouth, Grayson had seen, just to the right of her lower lip. Henderson’s mark. She had faintly pressed her handkerchief to it, as if trying to erase it, as the Duke of St. Clair had led her back into the house. Maggie had been very confused by it all. She’d asked in an anxious voice as she’d leapt from the carriage, “Papa, why did Mr. Henderson do that?”
    That was what Grayson had come to find out. Mrs. Alastair’s guests had hovered around when the duke had taken her back to the reception room to recover. Grayson hadn’t liked the look Lord Hildebrand Caldicott had given her, as if he’d envied Henderson his chance. Grayson hadn’t been able to get near Mrs. Alastair himself, not to touch her, or take her hand, or tell her dramatically, “I will avenge you.”
    “Henderson,” he said softly.
    The newspaper flew up into the air. Henderson leapt from the chair and came to rest on his feet, his eyes wild. He stared at the two men for a frozen moment, then swiftly put the chair between himself and them. “Finley—”
    Grayson approached. Henderson lifted his hands. “Finley,” he babbled. “You’ve already hit me once. Ruined my face. See? I had planned to visit a stable of high-flyers tonight, but now that is all a wash.”
    “Why?” Jacobs asked. “They’ll fuss over you.”
    Henderson brightened. “Do you think so?”
    “Henderson,” Grayson said.
    Just the one word had magical effect. Henderson paled. “Finley, I swear to you, it was not my idea.”
    “Oh, I know whose idea it was.” His voice remained soft—in a deadly sort of way. “What I want to know is why.”
    Henderson wet his lips, wincing when he touched a bruise. “Captain Ardmore saw her enter your house last night.”
    “After he went on his wild rampage?” Jacobs interrupted. “I remember him swearing not to kill us.”
    “Well, he did not kill you, did he?” Henderson raised his hands again. “And I had nothing to with that raid. I didn’t know a blessed thing about it until O’Malley told me this morning.”
    “Is O’Malley here?” Jacobs asked, looking around as if the small man would come popping out of the woodwork.
    Henderson snorted. “O’Malley, here? Do you really think they’d let a dingy little Irishman in this place?”
    “I’ll tell the dingy little Irishman you remembered himto me,” Grayson said dryly. “Go on with your explanation.”
    Henderson folded his arms, a self-protective gesture. “Ardmore wondered what she meant to you. And O’Malley speculated that if another gentleman kissed her within