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Morgan stepped forward, blood-soiled handkerchief still in hand. “I am.” As the three of them gaped at him, he flashed Griff an unreadable look. “And judging from your accusations, sir, you’ve recently run afoul of my brother, Morgan.”

“You’re Morgan,” Juliet blurted out, never so sure of anything in all her life. Then the rest of his statement arrested her. “Brother? He’s not your…that is…”

The gaze he leveled on her now was remote and aloof, showing no sign of recognition. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I’m not Morgan. I’m Sebastian Blakely, Lord Templemore. I do understand your confusion, however. You see, Morgan and I are not only brothers, but twins. Identical twins.”

Griff gaped at him. “That cannot be. I was informed that he was the baron’s…I mean, your ward.”

A pained smile crossed his lordship’s handsome features. “No doubt you were. It’s a complicated story.” He straightened to his full height. She’d forgotten how very tall he was. “But I prefer not to discuss it with complete strangers.”

The precise language, the gentlemanly demeanor, the wry smile were all Morgan’s. Yet the man was clearly master of the house, judging from the irate servants now gathering on the lawn to form a protective phalanx beside him. It was unfathomable that her Morgan could be a lord. Lords didn’t kidnap women and consort with smugglers.

Still…

Griff hesitated, then bowed stiffly. “I see that I must beg your pardon and provide introductions. My name is Griffith Knighton. This is my wife, Lady Rosalind, and my sister-in-law, Lady Juliet.” He nodded toward Lord Templemore’s companion. “I assumed from this other gentleman’s age that he was master of Charnwood. So when my sister-in-law recognized you, we both thought—”

“That I must be Morgan,” Lord Templemore finished.

“Yes. You have my deepest apologies, sir. I shouldn’t have struck you.”

“Good of you to admit it.” His gaze flicked to her, then back to Griff, as if looking at her unsettled him. “Is your sister-in-law the person my brother ‘injured’?”

“Yes,” Juliet answered for Griff, wanting Lord Templemore to look at her again. She couldn’t believe his assertions. There was too much of Morgan in him, not only in his looks, but his controlled manner, his refined speech…his arrogance. If she could only read his eyes…

But he continued to gaze steadily at Griff. “Knighton, is it? Of Knighton Trading in London?”

“Yes, that’s my business concern,” Griff responded. “We traveled all this way hoping to speak with your war—…your brother.”

The older gentleman in puce snorted. “Speak with? You have a peculiar way of starting conversations, young man.”

Griff flushed a dark red, and Juliet felt not a jot of pity to see him tug nervously at his cravat. “I’m afraid that ours is also a…complicated tale, Mr.…er…”

“Allow me to introduce you,” Lord Templemore put in civilly. “Mr. Knighton, this is my mother’s brother: Mr. Pryce.”

The familiar name made them all look to the older man. He quickly added, “Mr. Llewelyn Pryce, mind you, so don’t be aiming any fists at me.”

Rosalind gripped Griff’s elbow. “My husband won’t be aiming fists at anyone else today, I assure you. I’ll see to that.”

For once, Griff had the good sense to suffer the rebuke in silence, though not without frowning.

Juliet thought it politic to step in, especially since she couldn’t catch Lord Templemore’s eye. “But we do need to speak to your lordship about a matter concerning Morgan Pryce. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d appreciate it if you’d hear us out.”

Lord Templemore refused to acknowledge her in any way. Instead, he cast Rosalind and Griff a considering glance. “Very well. Though I believe this conversation should take place in more…ah…private surroundings.”

“Yes,” Griff agreed at once.

“If you’ll follow me…” Lord Templemore said and gestured toward the house.

They all trooped off toward Charnwood Hall. Seething with indignation at how blatantly his lordship ignored her, Juliet fell back to observe him from behind. His attire was as sober as Morgan’s had been: a suit of drab and a plain silk waistcoat with a cravat tied in a simple knot. He walked with Morgan’s self-assured gait. And when his uncle spoke, he cocked his head to listen exactly as Morgan had done with her a dozen times or more. But perhaps identical twins would share such mannerisms. She didn’t know.

Once they reached the side door leading into the house, he stood by to let them all enter first. She passed close enough to smell him. Lord help her if he didn’t smell exactly like Morgan—of saltpeter blended with iron and smoke, the smell of Hephaestus, the God of Fire.

Then they passed into a great hall, and she dragged in a sharp breath.

The God of Fire had a substantial arsenal, didn’t he? Hung in menacing row after row on one long wall were swords, daggers, halberds, and a variety of firearms—muskets and blunderbusses and wicked-looking dueling pistols. The servants must be in a perpetual terror whenever they dusted them. She certainly would be.

Had he designed all those pistols? It wouldn’t surprise her—she could see him as Hephaestus, laboring over his implements of fire in a hidden forge beneath the earth. No wonder he—or his twin, if he was to be believed—had thought it amusing to associate with smugglers. “Planning to start a war soon, Lord Templemore?” she asked as he led them down the gauntlet.

He stared straight ahead. “They are daunting, aren’t they? They’re not all mine, however. My grandfather acquired the bulk of them years ago. He collected weapons—they were his passion.”