The Handmaiden's Necklace. Kat Martin

of Rafe’s intended journey and come to him with an offer of assistance—but there was a favor he wanted in return.

      “Rumors have been surfacing,” the colonel had said, “whispers that a venture may be in the making between the Americans and the French. A deal that would be of great benefit to Napoléon. We need your help, Your Grace. If you agree, you won’t be on your own. You’ll have Max Bradley to assist you.”

      Rafe knew Bradley well, knew how good he was, and that he was a man to count on. England had been fighting the French for years. Thousands of British lives had been lost.

      Rafe agreed to help in any way he could and received the colonel’s assistance in return, which included the letters of introduction. When Rafe set sail aboard the Triumph, one of the newest ships in the Belford shipping fleet, Max Bradley sailed with him, a man who worked undercover for the War Office—a polite way of saying that Max was a British spy.

      In the days since their arrival, Bradley had gone underground in search of information, and Rafe had used the letters to find someone who could lead him to Dani. He had been introduced to Marcus Whitman, a close friend of Richard Clemens, and secured an invitation to the house party Whitman was holding in honor of the bride and groom.

      Rafe stared off toward the terrace, his chest feeling heavy. In her gold brocade gown, with her glorious red hair swept up, Danielle looked even more beautiful tonight than she had the last time he had seen her.

      Still, as he had watched her moving around the room on the arm of the man she was to marry, there wasn’t a spark of joy in her lovely green eyes, not the least hint of passion. Perhaps, like himself, she had merely learned a greater degree of self-control.

      As he watched her disappear out of sight into the garden, he wished he could have found a better way to proceed. But he had wanted to meet Richard Clemens, to discover as much about the man as he could, and with the wedding just three weeks away, there wasn’t much time.

      Rafe made conversation with Whitman and his dark-haired, likable little wife, all the while watching the terrace door, hoping for another glimpse of Dani.

      “If it isn’t His Grace, the duke.” Flora Chamberlain appeared beside him, a round-faced little woman with keen blue eyes. “One never knows whom one might encounter, even all these miles from home.” She studied him from beneath thick gray lashes, her gaze coolly assessing. “It never occurred to me that you might actually come.”

      Rafe’s gaze met hers. “Did it not? You knew I would discover the truth when you gave Jonas McPhee that letter. Did you really believe I would let the matter rest without speaking to Danielle?”

      “You could have discovered the truth five years ago if you had made the effort.”

      “I was younger then, and extremely hotheaded. I was insanely jealous of Dani. And I was a fool.”

      “I see… You’re older now, not so wildly passionate.”

      “Exactly. When I last saw Danielle and she continued to profess her innocence after all of these years, I decided to investigate the matter and discovered, to my everlasting regret, that I had wronged your niece.”

      “Quite a surprise, I’m sure. Still, it was a goodly distance to travel.”

      “I would have gone to any lengths to find her.”

      “I’ll admit I hoped you might come. I believe Danielle deserves an apology from you—even if you had to sail nearly four thousand miles to make it.”

      “Is that the only reason?”

      She glanced away, out toward the terrace. “For the present…yes.”

      “I need to speak to her, Lady Wycombe. When can that be arranged?”

      The countess continued to stare off toward the garden, then she turned back to Rafe. “Come to my house tomorrow morning—221 Arch Street. Ten o’clock. Richard isn’t due to arrive until noon.”

      Rafe reached down and captured the lady’s white-gloved hand. He lifted her fingers to his lips. “Thank you, Lady Wycombe. You have ever been a good friend to Dani.”

      “Whatever you do, do not make me regret my involvement in this affair. Promise me you will do nothing more to hurt her.”

      Rafe looked down at the stout little gray-haired woman who had been far more loyal to Danielle than he ever had been. “I give you my solemn word.”

      Wearing only her chemise and a light silk wrapper, since the night was warm even at this late hour, Danielle sat on a petit-point stool in front of the dressing table in her room. Caroline Loon sat on the edge of the four-poster canopied bed across from her.

      “He was there at the party, Caro. I still can’t believe it. He came all the way from England. What could he possibly want?”

      “Perhaps it isn’t what you think. Perhaps the man who introduced you is right and the duke is simply here on business. You told me the duke is quite wealthy. Perhaps he has financial concerns in America as well as England.”

      Dani felt a glimmer of hope. “Do you really think it’s possible?”

      “I think it’s entirely possible.”

      “Perhaps he has come to see Richard, to warn him against the sort of woman he believes me to be.”

      “Your fiancé knows the truth. There is nothing the duke can tell him that you haven’t already told him yourself. What Sheffield might say won’t make any difference.”

      “I’m not so sure. Richard is extremely concerned with appearances. He might believe in my innocence, but he would be highly concerned should others hear the story.”

      Caro tapped the silver-backed hairbrush she held in one hand. “You said the duke pretended not to know you last night. Perhaps he will keep his silence.”

      Dani shook her head. “Rafael hates me. He ruined my life once before. How can I believe he will not try to do it again?”

      “Maybe you should talk to him, find out what he is thinking.”

      An odd feeling stirred to life in Dani’s chest. She couldn’t imagine what it was. “Yes, perhaps I should. At least I will know where I stand.”

      Caro got up from the bed, taller and thinner than Dani, wearing a mobcap over a thatch of pale blond curls. “It’s getting late. Turn round and let me brush out your hair, then you should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow we can make some sort of plan.”

      Dani nodded. She turned on the stool and Caro deftly pulled the pins from her hair, letting the heavy strands fall loose down her back. The bristle brush followed, stroking through the thick mass of curls. Caro was right. Tomorrow she would make plans to confront Rafael.

      Her stomach tightened.

      In the meantime, it was highly unlikely that she would be able to sleep.

      Danielle was up early…at least by London standards. Americans didn’t seem to enjoy the same ungodly hours as the ton, whose members stayed out half the night, then wasted most of the next day in bed preparing to repeat their indulgence again the next evening. The people in this country might enjoy a late night on occasion, but it didn’t seem to be the norm. The Americans she had met were hard workers and extremely ambitious.

      Richard was certainly one of them.

      Still, today he had promised they would spend the afternoon with his children and share an intimate supper with his mother and a couple of family friends before he left for his factory in Easton, a small town fifty miles away where he would be working for the next few days.

      “Dani! Dani!” Caro burst through the doorway, her blue eyes wide as saucers. “He’s here! He’s downstairs in the parlor!”

      “Slow down, Caro. Who is downstairs in the parlor?”

      “The duke! He says he wishes to speak to you. He says