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Cynthia gave any credence at all to the warning against Lithgow when she refused to listen to Caro’s admonitions about Denford. “It’s unlike Caro to be cryptic. How can I find out? Could you ask Denford? Since you are so close.”
    “Or you could ask Lithgow.”
    W ith mixed feelings Marcus discovered that the Duke of Denford had moved in next door to Windermere House. Julian disclaimed any interest in the Brotherton heiress. He’d spent several months making up to the wife of his former best friend, Windermere, for some unexplained and doubtless nefarious reason. But Julian was quite capable of playing more than one game at the same time, and it seemed logical that a man who found himself with a title, a couple of huge mansions, and very little ready money would solve his problem by courting the heiress next door. A friendship of more than ten years had taught Marcus that trying to outfox Julian was fruitless. One reason he never played cards with him.
    When he called at Windermere House a couple of days after their Soho adventure—never appear too eager was one of his hard rules of seduction—Julian was cozily ensconced in the drawing room, amusing both ladies greatly. Anne Brotherton rose to greet him with a shy smile he found encouraging.
    “Miss Brotherton.” He took her outstretched hand and held it a bare second longer than necessary. She made no effort to pull away. “I came to inquire after the health of a certain book.”
    “Thank you. I am glad to report that the volume is dry, though its scent may never be suitable for polite company. Cynthia refuses to let me read it downstairs. I have to keep it in my bedchamber.”
    “I trust it wasn’t so dry as to send you instantly to sleep.”
    “The content is perhaps more fascinating than the prose. Nevertheless I am grateful and will think of your gallant rescue whenever I consult it.”
    With a more worldly lady, Marcus would have offered a saucy double entendre. Anne Brotherton’s words were flirtatious but her expression remained grave. He wondered if she ever played games of chance. She would have the advantage of being hard to read.
    “It’s a fine day,” she said. “I do believe the sun is struggling to emerge from those clouds. Would you care to see Cynthia’s garden? It’s quite fine.”
    Intriguing, especially since the sun seemed likely to fail in its efforts. Following her downstairs, he listened to her observations on the history of Bath, showing she had indeed been reading the evil-smelling volume, much more carefully than he had when it was pristine. She collected her pelisse and did not flinch when he placed a careless hand on the small of her back to guide her down the steps into the garden, which was a decent size for the middle of London but not, in its early winter barrenness, of any special beauty.
    In the bleak surroundings his companion seemed more animated than usual, a leftover late rose among dying leaves. Her dark hair set off delicately pink cheeks and a sweet red mouth. An invitation to a deserted garden usually presaged a kiss at the very least and Marcus was willing, even eager, to take it.
    Without saying a word, he stood in the light breeze, letting her make the next move. He read hesitation in the hazel eyes, more blue than brown in the dull light. A quick nod, a deep breath, and she spoke.
    “I had a letter from Caro today.”
    No kiss then. How disappointing. But he had been expecting this and he was ready. “How is she?” he asked.
    “She warned me against you, said I shouldn’t trust you. Because of what happened between you and Castleton.”
    Tempting as it was to entirely blame the duke, he’d already planned to tell her as much of the truth as was politic, slanting it to his own advantage. That Anne had jumped to the conclusion that Caro’s grievance had something to do with her husband was an unlooked-for benefit.
    “Caro is angry with me, and rightly so. Let me explain, though the story does not