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“Kidnap her ourselves, sir?”

“I like the way you think, but I have a different idea. Are you willing to play the footman again?”

“The Walhouse cook took a liking to me, sir. I’m sure I can get back in the house.”

“Good.”

Miranda was waiting for Nate in the shop when he brought Hazelwood’s greatcoat for repairs.

She didn’t look up from her needlework when he came through the curtain in the back of the shop.

“He’s going to be okay. Bruised is all. Nothing broken.”

“Papa says his jacket can’t be saved.”

“I’m sure your father can make him a new one.”

She looked up then, her eyes flashing angrily. “He spent nearly a year wearing soiled, stinking linen and ill-fitting coats, and now when he gets to dress like the gentleman he is, you let him ruin his clothes.”

“If you want to blame anyone, blame yourself. You wanted to see Hunt drive his van over the Serpentine.”

She jumped up off her stool, shaking now. “Like half of London. It’s not my fault. If you could drive, this wouldn’t have happened. You could have taken me to see the race, and Lord Hazelwood would never have been hurt. You’re supposed to be the muscle, aren’t you? Haven’t they hired you to get your thick head broken, while they do the clever work?”

“That’s not exactly the way it is. Besides, you misunderstand Hazelwood, if you think he doesn’t like danger.” He didn’t want to tell her the real reason Hazelwood had dashed down that hillside and flung himself onto that carriage, but he would if she pushed him too far.

“You should have stopped him.”

Nate shook his head. “You can’t stop a man from rushing to the aid of the woman he loves.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes big with awareness of the truth of it. She, too, had seen the viscount’s mad dash to save Jane Fawkener. “He doesn’t love her. She’s just a case, and he would never let a case go wrong.”

“You, Miranda, need to go back to The Husband Hunter’s Guide. You need to read the chapter on getting above yourself. He’s not for you, and the sooner you accept the truth, the better for you.”

“I hate you, Nate Wilde. You just want to put me down. I’m much prettier than Jane Fawkener. And she promised—”

“What?”

“Never mind. She doesn’t know Lord Hazelwood’s worth like I do.”

Nate came right up to her, close enough to feel her breath huffing out in her anger. “Miranda, when did she promise you anything?”

Miranda stuck out her stubborn chin. “I’m not saying anything. She left him, didn’t she? Went to stay with her cousins.”

“That doesn’t change anything. He’d pretty much die for her.”

“No.” She stared at him in horror.

Nate stepped away. “He would. He’s that kind of man, and he’s that in love.”

* * * *

Clive kept himself under rigid control in the Ravenhurst carriage on the journey home. He had his arm around Allegra, who leaned against him, her eyes closed in pain. Jane had helped her remove her ruined hat. He found it difficult to appreciate Malikov’s light tone, and he felt deeply grateful for the glances Pamela gave him, indicating her sympathy. Later they would meet in their usual way. He held on to that thought through the scene of his mother’s distress, the summoning of the doctor, his father’s usual unhelpful confusion and concern for his horses, his younger siblings’ shocked curiosity. He tried, as well, not to resent Jane’s quiet competence.

Malikov waited for him in his mother’s drawing room. “No serious harm done, apparently.”

Clive saw that Malikov had helped himself to a drink. He poured himself a short measure of his father’s brandy to avoid saying something intemperate, like—Are you mad? You could have killed us all. It seemed to him that to acknowledge the extent of the danger would put him at a disadvantage in whatever game he and the count were playing.

“I’m beginning to think that you like courting danger, Walhouse.” Malikov spoke from one of the two gilded chaise longues his mother had purchased when she’d redecorated the room. The low, backless sofas with their bold black and gold striped pattern dominated the pale blue room.