"Are you leaving us, Quinn?"

Lord Marlesquin had long ago taught the ton to address him as Quinn. It had begun when he was known as "Sir Alexander Quinley" before his uncle died, leaving him the family’s title. He had hated the name he shared with his late father almost as much as he had despised his father himself, but he had become accustomed to being called Quinn by his friends. He knew keeping the name made no sense, save that he still heard her whispering it in his dreams. He had learned after all these years not to let her name form in his mind.

Quinn paused in the doorway of the elegant house. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge the unwanted thoughts about the past. He usually enjoyed his visits to Lady Parbridge’s house, but he appreciated the idea of returning to his own home on Grosvenor Square, especially when he was taking his leave of a gathering as boring as the one tonight. Ennui must be the reason for his frivolous musings about that long-ago courtship that had ended too soon.

He would not mention his boredom to his hostess, a buxom redhead whose late husband had been a rakehell marquess. Now Lady Parbridge was looking for someone to take his place. Not someone just in her bed, for that spot was already filled by her many lovers, but a husband who would pay for her extravagant entertaining. Someone who would not ask too many questions and would retire early so she might be entertained by her court of assistants. Those young flatterers had vied for her attentions and gifts even before Lord Parbridge had been buried.

Bowing over her hand, Quinn smiled. "I am afraid I have to be up at an unreasonable hour on the morrow."

"Oh, you spend too much time on matters you should leave to your estate manager."

"I suspect he would make a jumble of the matters I must deal with tomorrow." He saw the curiosity in her eyes that were outlined with kohl, but he had no intention of satisfying it. If he spoke of the topic he would be discussing with one of the Regent’s ministers, the details would be spread throughout the Polite World within hours. "How kind of you to bid me a good evening. I have kept you too long from your other guests."

He looked past her. As he had expected, a young swain was waiting for her just out of earshot. He knew the dandy, who had excellent taste and empty pockets. Such a young man would see pleasuring the lady in her bed an extra benefit in his task to spend as much of her late husband’s estate as possible.

"He can wait," she said without looking over her shoulder at her young paramour who had shadowed her all evening. "Quinn, I need to speak with you of a...of a personal matter."

"Yes?" He knew she had no interest in him as a potential husband because he would not be willing to step aside and let her run his home into bankruptcy. Nor did she consider him a candidate for a spot in her bed since he had turned her offer down twice. He had no interest in such a one-sided relationship, even though he recognized the benefits to himself. His own bed had been empty for too long.

But there was only one woman he wanted to have in it, and she had broken his heart so thoroughly that he was foolish to think of her still.

"Quinn," Lady Parbridge said, drawing his attention back to her, "I wanted you to be the first to know that I shall announce my betrothal next week."

"Congratulations, my dear."

"Do you mean that?" She gave him an unsteady smile.

He was startled. Why would she question his felicitations? They had known each other for many years, so she should have expected him to be happy that she finally had coerced a willing victim into the parson’s mousetrap.

Quinn kissed her cheek, smiling when she gave the laugh she always did when she accused his mustache of tickling her. "Most sincerely. Your late husband would not have expected you to remain a widow the rest of your life. He cared too much for you to wish such a fate on you."

"Do you think so?"

"I know that is so, just as do you." He kept his expression from revealing his thoughts. His hostess had reasons to remarry, just has his mother had not to. His mother had made a career out of being a widow, so she could rule her only child – and the extended family – as its dowager. He knew it was unlikely that his father had requested she never remarry. His father had not cared for anyone but himself.

"Thank you, Quinn." She pressed her cheek to his again before turning to go back to her young admirer who regarded her as if he were a lowly petitioner and she a goddess.

Only when the door closed and Quinn walked out into the mist that had swallowed the other side of the square did he realize he had not asked whom she planned to marry. He would learn soon enough. Such matters did not stay quiet long among the ton, and Lady Parbridge would make certain everyone knew straightaway.

"Odd that she would seek me out to tell me about the betrothal now," he said to himself as he walked to his open carriage that was waiting by the walkway.

"She was offering you a final opportunity, my lord," the footman murmured as he came to stand by the front of the carriage.

"What did you say, Jefferson?"

The footman smiled with the informality that Quinn allowed his servants. "I said that she was offering you a final opportunity to ask her to marry you, my lord."

"I hope you are wrong."

"The fog is thickening, but it is still possible to see the front step."

Quinn looked back. The mist was swirling like the contents of a pot stirred by a fingertip, but the lights by the door help it back enough to let anyone in the doorway be visible.

"I could see her well in the lanterns on either side of the door," said Jefferson, "and she was holding her breath in anticipation of your reaction to her announcement."

He climbed into the box and drew out his pipe from beneath his coat. Taking the flame that Jefferson lit from the streetlamp, he puffed several times before he said, "She smiled when I congratulated her."

"A pitiful smile."

"All I noticed was the smile."

The footman opened his mouth to say more, then seemed to think better of it. He climbed up to sit beside Quinn in the box.

Quinn steered his carriage toward Grosvenor Square. He liked Town at this hour. The streets were empty of the heavy press of traffic that slowed most journeys. Gone, too, were the peddlers and carts that further jammed the thoroughfares. Lights shone from only a few windows, and they drove past houses where the sounds of merriment signaled another gathering of the Polite World. They played, oblivious to anyone who thought of matters beyond calls and soirées.

With a sigh, he took a deeper puff on his pipe. He wished he could stop thinking about his appointment the next morning. He had not expected to be called to Whitehall so soon, and he needed to find a way to cushion his report about the unease among erstwhile workers in the factories to the north.

Jefferson began to prattle gossip he had heard from others in the stable. Quinn did not halt him nor did he listen. Instead he focused on the report he knew would cause an uproar when he presented it in the morning. No one wanted to hear that the rising prices of bread and the increasing unemployment were threatening to bring on riots that would match those of the Luddites four years ago.

The spring had been unseasonably cool and rainy, making the sowing of crops late. If the summer did not prove more favorably disposed to farmers, the harvest would be late. Very late, and those who already could not afford to feed themselves and their children would starve. People would do anything to protect their families, including the risk of hanging if caught rioting. They had nothing to lose.

He knew that the report would be met with comments of "doomsayer" and "pessimistic." He hoped they were right, but in the wake of the war, industrial production was down and too many hands had been idled.

Turning the carriage into Grosvenor Square, he saw through the tentacles of the mist that a few houses had windows lit. Their residents must still be out basking in the glow of bright candles and lamps at some gathering.

Suddenly, someone jumped out of the darkness in front of the carriage. Beside him, Jefferson yelled a curse. Quinn repeated the same words in his mind as he fought to rein in the horses. The carriage stopped a few feet from the shadowed person. Before Quinn could demand why anyone would be so cabbage-headed as to run directly into the path of a carriage, the form rushed toward him. Even in the congealing fog, the streetlamps provided enough light for him to see the woman was dressed in a style that suggested she was not unfamiliar with a decent life, even though she was approaching him alone at such a late hour.

"Please," she called. "I beg you to help me." Slender, pale fingers clutched the dash only inches from his leg. She gasped, "Oh, no! It cannot be." Disbelief heightened her voice. "Quinn? Is that you?"

"Millie? Millicent Dunsworthy?" Quinn stared at the face turned up to him. Was it possible? He wanted to deny what he was seeing, but he could not. Once, he had spent hours staring into those soft blue eyes. Gold hair, like sunshine spun into silk, was stripped of its color by the moonlight. From her expression, he knew there was no time to ask what she meant by It cannot be. Later, he promised himself. Now, he was shocked that she would call him Quinn. When he had seen her less than a year ago for a brief, unsatisfying conversation that was better suited to strangers, she had addressed him by his title.

"What are you doing out alone at this hour?" he asked, trying to push thoughts of that uncomfortable encounter from his mind. He needed to think about tonight. What sort of emergency had sent her racing toward him? "Where are your companions?"

"I need your help! Please."

Quinn jumped down from the carriage, tossing the reins to his footman. Behind him, Jefferson was uncharacteristically silent. Obviously, the footman had been as shocked as Quinn to see someone rushing toward them, calling for help. Jefferson might not recognize the name Quinn had gasped, because he had not been a part of Quinn’s household on the day when Millie…No, he needed to think of her as Millicent now, just as if they had never been more than friends. Jefferson had been hired after Millicent left Town without responding to his proposal. In the years since, she had never contacted him to explain why she had not given him an answer. He had not guessed that her love could become hate so swiftly. He understood the obligations she had taken on, but she still could have had the decency to let him know that she did not want to marry him.

And he had never explained to her why he had not followed after her, demanding an answer. The truth that was even more heinous than his cowardice at not confronting her and discovering why she had never answered him. He could not explain that now either because the truth still must remain unspoken.

Putting his hands on her trembling shoulders, Quinn had to resist drawing her into arms that had ached for her night after night since she had left. Even so, time had dimmed the memory of how wondrously soft and yet strong she was.

"Are you just going to stand there staring at me, or will you help?" she asked.

"Help? Who? How?"

"My friend Elizabeth Wallace. She – " She shivered so hard he feared she would tear herself apart.

"Come into my house, and tell me what is happening."

"No, we must—"

"We might as well discuss this inside in the light." He felt only a pinch of guilt at the half-truth. He yearned to have her move into the circle of light by the door where his butler, Lane, stood, looking at them with a puzzled expression.

Quinn needed to see her face. Even though he had seen her briefly the previous fall, he wanted to have a chance to look at her. Really look at her. Last time they had spoken so briefly, but neither of them had looked the other in the eye. She must have been aware, as he had been, of others waiting to see how two people who had professed love to each other, then gone on their separate paths, would act. Tonight the only witnesses would be his servants, and, despite Jefferson’s gossip in the carriage, they knew to keep their mouths shut about his business.

He drew her up onto the walkway and toward the ring of light. She shrugged off his hand, startling him. The motion almost knocked her from her feet, and she stumbled closer to the door.

The butler choked, "Lord Marlesquin, look!"

Quinn did. His eyes widened as he saw the crimson splattered on Millicent’s gown. "By Jove, is that blood?"

She gingerly lifted one side of her gown. Staring at it, she opened her mouth. No sound emerged from it. When she swayed, he leaped forward. He caught her as she collapsed.

From the doorway, Lane asked, "Has she been hurt?" He hesitated, then whispered, "Do you know how?"

"Not by my hand, I assure you," he answered grimly.

"My lord, I never meant to suggest—"

"I know you did not. I don’t know how she was hurt, but I intend to find out." He adjusted her in his arms, savoring for a guilty moment the warmth and sweetness of her, and saw her face in the light. Such a delicate beauty, but he knew the fragility was an illusion—a part of the enigma that was Millicent Dunsworthy.

As if she had heard him speak her name aloud, her eyes opened. "Quinn?"

He wanted to have sympathy for her, but could not when others might be in danger. "What has happened to you?"

"Put me down."

"Are you sure you can stand?"

"Of course, I can."

"Are you hurt?"

"I am fine."

He wanted to say she was right. In his arms, she was truly fine. He set her on her feet before he did something stupid like saying that aloud, but kept one hand on her elbow. "Take care. You just swooned."

"I did not. Dunsworthy women do not..." She glanced away from him and at the men staring at her. "Good! There are enough of you." As she strode toward the corner, she paused and looked over her shoulder. "Aren’t you coming?"

"Where?" Quinn asked as he ran to catch up with her.

"This way!" She pointed in the direction of Hyde Park. "Hurry! She was unconscious when I left."

He did not ask her to explain. Hearing footfalls behind him, he knew his footman and butler were following them. Neither of them would be willing to wait for his return, because their curiosity would be unbearable.

He saw her wobble. When he put his arm around her waist to keep her on her feet, she glanced at him and quickly away. Was she trying to keep him from seeing her reaction to his touch, or was she only thinking of the woman who needed their help? He needed to keep focused, too.

Hyde Park’s expanse of lawn and the Serpentine, which glittered in the moonlight, were lost to the fog. Everything was in shadow, lighter shadows marking where streetlamps were lit, and deeper shadows gathered around the trees edging the walkways.

"Where?" Quinn whispered, not sure who might be concealed by the fog.

"Straight ahead," she answered as softly before stepping onto the grass.

He halted her when he saw something lying in the grass. Bringing her with him, he went closer. His servants inched along behind him, glancing around to make sure no one leaped from the fog to ambush them.

It was not something in the grass, Quinn realized, but someone. He bent to seek a pulse in the man’s neck, but knew it was useless. No one could be so battered and remain alive. He found nothing.

"Saints above, preserve us!" gasped Lane as the butler scuttled back several steps. "Shall I send for the watch?"

"Not yet." He glanced in both directions, not able to see much in the thickening fog. Even the lamps by the street looked dim.

"Where is the other one?" Millicent added.

"Another?" His stomach twisted with disgust. "Not Miss Wallace?"

"No, there were two men here."

"A duel?"

She shook her head, wincing. For a moment, he feared she would crumple again, but was not surprised when she straightened her shoulders. He had learned long ago that Millicent Dunsworthy was no delicate blossom, wilting at the first sign of trouble. "It was nothing so civilized. Now where is...?" She rushed toward the thicker shadows beneath a tree. "This way!"

He ran to where Millicent was dropping to her knees. The curse he had not spoken aloud in the carriage burst from his lips when he saw the unconscious woman. He did not pause to apologize to Millicent for his bear-garden language. Such words, at an appropriate time, had never distressed her. If she had become more thin-skinned since their last conversation in London, there was nothing he could do to retract his words.

"Jefferson, go to the closest watch box and alert the night-watchman there. Barkus may be the closest."

"Right away, my lord." He vanished into the fog-shrouded darkness.

Looking down at Millicent, he asked, "How does she fare?"

"She has been struck heavily." Her voice was calm, which he expected. It would take Napoleon escaping from his distant island prison and invading England to ruffle her. Maybe. "Several times. She is still senseless."

He drew off his coat and draped it over the young woman as he squatted beside Millicent. Miss Wallace’s dark hair was torn loose from its pins and spread out like a dark cloud around her. She appeared to be barely old enough to be participating in her first Season. Pain had dug lines into her pale cheeks, and her mouth was twisted.

Hearing his name shouted, he stood. Millicent continued holding Miss Wallace’s hand and talking to her friend as if the prone woman could comprehend what she said.

Jefferson burst out of the fog. "I found him, my lord. Barkus is going to find some of his fellows and come here to tend to the corpse."

"Watch what you say," Quinn warned lowly.

Not quietly enough, he realized when Millicent looked up and said, "Do not chide him! I witnessed horrific acts tonight, and my imagination is supplying even more scenarios. The mere mention of the word corpse will not bring vapors upon me."

He held out his hand to her. "Come with me. We need to get the carriage to bring your friend back to Grosvenor Square."

"Do you think I will leave her and that poor man out there?"

Reaching down, he drew her to her feet. "Be sensible."

"I am. You do not need my help to get your carriage. I intend to stay here."

He put his arms around her to turn her toward the street. When she stiffened, he growled, "Do you wish to wait here where you cannot do anything, or do you want to get your friend help?"

"You know I will do anything to help Elizabeth, but the watch will want to speak with me. How can I leave before they arrive? It would make me no better than those barbarians who—"

He cursed when she choked on the words she could not speak. Despite her iron will, Millicent was a gentle soul. He doubted she had ever seen anything so appalling in her small village along the southern coast of England.

"Send for your carriage," she continued, her voice uneven. She knelt again in the wet grass. "I will wait with Elizabeth. Hurry before the attackers decide to come back."

He started to turn away and do as she requested, but then looked at her. In the fog, it was impossible to see her expression, but the tilt of her chin told him what he should have realized straightaway. She was not frightened to be left alone with a corpse and a woman who might not survive until dawn nor was she frightened by the possibility that she could be the next victim. What worried her was that she might not be able to protect the woman from another attack.

"Jefferson," he ordered, "get the carriage. Lane, get back here as soon as you have alerted Mrs. Cash to have rooms prepared for Miss Dunsworthy and her friend."

The butler’s gasp of "Miss Dunsworthy?" brought a shocked look from the footman.

Quinn frowned, but did not chide the man. He understood Lane’s shock that Millicent had reappeared in his life. Lane had been in his service when Millicent left London for the village of Dunstanbury and her family home, Dunsworthy Hall, but his butler must not have recognized her during the race to the Park. That explained why Lane had asked no questions before now.

Recalling himself, Lane said, "Of course, my lord."

Quinn went back to stand with Millicent. She did not look up at him, but spoke softly to her friend as if her voice alone could keep Miss Wallace alive. He wished he knew something to say to help, but, for once, words evaded him.

As soon as the carriage reached them, he and Jefferson lifted Miss Wallace carefully onto the seat. He was unsure how he was going to drive the carriage until Millicent climbed into the carriage on her own. She shifted Miss Wallace slightly so she could sit with the young woman’s head on her lap and regarded Quinn with a cool frown.

Climbing into the carriage as Lane ran to meet them, he balanced the senseless woman’s legs across his. He picked up the reins as he said, "Jefferson, wait here until the watch arrives. Lane, come out to the street so you can direct the watch to where Jefferson is waiting."

"The young lady needs a doctor," the butler said. "I sent a lad to get one."

"Good. Once the watch arrives here, both of you return to the house."

"The watch will have questions," the footman said.

Quinn understood what his loyal servant would not say in Millicent’s presence. "Answer them with honesty about what you have witnessed here."

"Yes, my lord."

Turning the carriage with care toward the street, Quinn heard Miss Wallace moan softly on each bump. He kept the pace slow and tried to avoid any depressions in the grass. Even in the sunlight, it would have been difficult to drive around all of them.

"How is she?" he asked.

"The cut on her forehead is still bleeding, but not as quickly." Millicent did not raise her eyes as she whispered, "Thank you, Quinn."

Instead of replying, he cursed as someone jumped out of the darkness just as the carriage bounced onto the street. He heard Millicent draw in a deep breath. But he recognized the bulky man who carried a lantern.

Putting a hand on her arm, he murmured, "Follow my lead, and let me do the speaking. I know him. It is the watchman. Barkus."

"We need to get Elizabeth to where the doctor can help her," she said.

"I agree. Just be silent, and I will get us on our way as quickly as possible."

She did not answer as the large man walked toward them. Holding up his lantern, Barkus gasped and pointed at the injured woman. "Who is that?"

"Miss Wallace. We are taking her to Grosvenor Square."

Barkus lifted his lantern higher. Its light momentarily blinded Quinn. The watchman lowered it as he said, "M’lord, I should ‘ave recognized yer carriage." He tipped the brim of his floppy hat.

"Now that you do, I daresay we can end this conversation so we can get Miss Wallace tended to by a doctor before the sun rises."

Barkus peered into the shadowed rig. "An excellent idea. Can I ask ye and yer companion a question or two first?"

"One, because we cannot delay longer." He smiled coldly.

"Yer man reported a murder in the Park. Were either of you there?"

Millicent stiffened, but Quinn said, "Miss Dunsworthy was. You can ask her more questions on the morrow. Nothing more can be done to help that dead man, but these two ladies must be tended to."

"On the morrow," Millicent repeated, her voice so low that Quinn was unsure if Barkus had heard it until the watchman nodded.

"Thank ye." The charley shrugged his shoulders. "We shall be smokin’ out the murderer, no doubt. Cannot go far with that much blood on ’im. If we have any questions—"

Quinn did not give him a chance to say more. Slapping the reins, he drove to the street connecting the Park and the square. He waited for Millicent to speak. The woman he had known fifteen years ago would have been furious at such an attack. She would have shared every detail with him so he could inform the watchman while she made sure her friend received good care. She could not have changed that much. Had returning to the scene of the attack made her mute? She had seen things, it was clear, that no gentle soul should witness.

He asked to draw her out of the odd silence, "Why were you and Miss Wallace in the Park at this hour, Millicent?"

"I don’t know."

"You don’t know?" He glanced at her, but she was staring down at her friend. "I think, in spite of our past association, I deserve something other than more lies."

"It is the truth." Her voice remained strained and her breath uneven, as if she had run to the Thames and back. "We had intended to drive along its edge, I think. I am not sure."

He swore silently. He had not meant to suggest he was accusing her of lying...again. The words had slipped out amidst his anxiety about Miss Wallace and the events that had led to her lying in his carriage.

The whole house was alight with lamps when Quinn drew to a stop in front of it. He saw other doors opening around the square, but acted as if he had not taken note of them. Easing out from beneath the lady’s legs, he nodded to the boy who had rushed out to hold the horse’s head. He came around the carriage and handed Millicent out.

For a moment, it was as if the past fifteen years had not yet happened. How many times had he stood by a carriage and held up his hand to her? How many times had she placed her own slender fingers on his hand? And how many times had a delighted shiver surged through him as he imagined drawing her out of the carriage and into his arms?

He scowled. There was no time for such absurd thoughts. Not only did he have to make certain that Miss Wallace was tended to, but he still had that accursed meeting in the morning. If he went into that discussion with his mind too distracted, months of work could be for naught. And Millicent had been quite clear that whatever had happened in the past should be forgotten.

When he called a footman forward to assist Millicent into the house, he was not sure if she or the footman was more shocked that he was not helping her himself. She murmured her thanks as she went with the lad.

Quinn waited until Miss Wallace had been lifted from the carriage and onto a makeshift litter. Following the others into the house, he looked back to see the boy leading the carriage around the back to the mews.

The house’s foyer, its walls painted a pale green and with no friezes across the ceiling, was plain when compared to neighboring homes on the square. Even the wood and iron newels were in a simple Chippendale pattern. The darker green marble floor tiles and the lone table with a tray for calling cards were, in his mind, an appropriate setting for a bachelor.

But now the space seemed different. It did not offer the welcome he usually enjoyed. Everything felt odd. That feeling had started when he looked down from his carriage and into Millicent Dunsworthy’s eyes.

He watched two footmen carry Miss Wallace up the stairs while Jane, the redheaded maid, waited to escort Millicent. His gaze shifted to Millicent who stood with her hand on the newel post. He was amazed that she was not going up with her friend, but he had misread everything about the evening. Probably because too many of his thoughts evolved into recalling how Millicent’s soft lips could alter from a concerned frown to an inviting smile before he could catch his breath at the very sight of her.

"Is there something you need, Millicent?" he asked, hoping she did not ask him the same question. He could answer that question all too easily.

She turned to him, her face almost the color of the gray fog. She opened her mouth. No sound came out as her eyes rolled back, and her knees sagged beneath her.

He grasped her arms, pulling her into his, before she could strike the floor. When her bonnet fell back, he saw dried blood on the straw. What in the blazes…? He could not finish the thought. Did not want to finish it. The blood was on the inside of the bonnet. It was Millicent’s! She was hurt. She had concealed the truth from them. He was twice over a fool. When she fainted before, he should have – If she died, it would be his fault. She could not die. Not now. Not when she was back in his life again.

No! He shook off the tempting caress of panic. He would not succumb to it. Saving Millicent was the only thing he would think about. He knelt, placing her with care onto the floor. He gently examined her head. As he had feared, there was a lump just behind her ear. Her pulse was fast, but steady. Her breath warmed his palm when he put his hand near her lips.

"Don’t die, Millie," he whispered. "I need to know why you left without a word and never came back. I need…" He halted himself before he could reveal the truth of the longings that had burst back to life the moment he saw her.

She groaned, but he doubted she had heard his words. Stepping back, he instructed Jane to check Millicent for any broken bones. He silently cursed propriety and his own slavish acceptance of it that kept him from discovering for himself if she was hurt elsewhere.

Hurry, he wanted order. Tell me she is fine. Tell me she will be fine.

He kept his mouth shut, pacing the narrow entry hallway until Jane looked up.

"Yes?" he demanded in a tone he never used with his household.

The maid recoiled, her eyes wide with shock, but said, "I found no broken bones, my lord. The only blood is coming from that cut behind her ear."

"Thank you." He gave her a quick smile in lieu of a full apology for his sharp words. "Will you be so kind as to inform Mrs. Cash that I am bringing Miss Dunsworthy up?"

"Of course, my lord." She dipped in a curtsy and rushed up the stairs.

Quinn bent and lifted Millicent with care. He grimaced when her head lolled against his shoulder. He did not want to injure her further.

"You could have mentioned to me that the reason you could not remember why you were in Hyde Park was because you had been struck, too," he chided as he carried her up the stairs.

She did not open her eyes, but he would have sworn that she nestled closer to him. His body reacted to that thought, and it took all his willpower not to discover if he could wake her with a kiss. As he continued up the stairs, he was certain of one thing.

Tomorrow might not be the worst day of the week after all.