“No,” she answered at once. “I have seen Lord Whitney but a handful of times, the last of which was likely a year ago.” She wished she could remember the specifics of the day, if only as an appeasement, but to be the object of such intense scrutiny rather unnerved her.

At her answer, the tension from the men lessened. Marginally.

Leo gave a tight nod. “It seems Lord Whitney is gone from here.”

Gone from here could mean any number of things, yet Anne knew better than to press for an explanation. Whatever had happened, wherever Lord Whitney was, it left a cold shadow over the four men with her now. Including her husband. At his last mention of Lord Whitney’s name, Leo absently rubbed at his shoulder, and frowned at the floor. What he saw was not the Axminster carpet, but dark, ominous scenes. Scenes from his past, shared with the other Hellraisers—but not her.

She had thought it before, but she truly believed it now: her husband was a stranger. A stranger with secrets.

“She’s a bit undersized,” said Bram. He and Leo stood off to the side of the drawing room, watching as dancers made their figures. As the day had worn on, and the sun had set, musicians had arrived. Footmen had moved the table, the carpets had been rolled up, the candles were lit, and dancing had begun.

A fine tension ran through Leo. He felt it in Bram, and the other Hellraisers, yet none of them wanted to speak of it on this day. Anne, unknowing, had spoken of the very issue—the very person—none wanted to discuss. The one who had been their closest ally and now threatened everything.

“Delicate,” Leo corrected, forcing his mind toward less troubling subjects.

“I would have thought you might favor a more robust girl.”

Over the rim of his glass, Leo watched his new wife move through the patterns of a dance. It was the Friar and the Nun. Or maybe Gathering Peascods. He could never remember all the names of the dances, nor their figures. It mattered little—he never stayed at assemblies and balls long enough to dance, and other, more important thoughts filled his brain. The cost of transporting pepper from Sumatra. The profitability of shipping English ale to India.

Today, he’d done his duty and danced one figure with Anne, then quickly retired to the side of the chamber, leaving the celebrating to others, including his wife.

She was a delicate thing. When Leo had first seen Anne Hartfield at an assembly, she’d made little impression on him. Small of stature, her hair somewhere between blond and brunette, eyes more distinctive for their liveliness than their hazel color. There were other girls, girls of more vivid beauty and sparkling dispositions, who giggled and artfully fanned themselves whenever he made mildly flirtatious remarks. Anne had only smiled and looked away, as if uncertain how to respond.

Even now, partnered with one of her elder brothers, she moved tentatively through the steps of the dance, though it was part of every genteel girl’s education to have a dancing master and learn to make pretty figures at assemblies. Her family’s reduced circumstances were no secret, however, so perhaps she never had a dancing master.

“I’ll own,” he said lowly, “that when I decided it was time to wed, there had been other girls that first attracted my notice. But I came to see that Anne was perfect.”

Bram looked skeptical. “Some of your Exchange logic?”

“I’m never without it. It was simply a matter of the best return for my investment.”

“An aristocratic bride—I see the reasoning behind that decision.”

As one of Leo’s closest friends, Bram could read his heart well. Nor did Leo make much secret of his demands. He burned for entry into a world long denied him. That could only be achieved by marrying a peer’s daughter rather than a daughter of one of the wealthy ironmongers or heads of a trade corporation. Such a marriage might net him wealth, and valuable business connections. But he already had wealth. He had connections. What he wanted, demanded, could only be gained through blood ties.

He would not gain a title, but by the Devil’s fire, he would have what his father had been denied: a place in Society.

And he refused to let Whit endanger that.

“Yet why not pick a bride with a fortune?” Bram asked. “Why the daughter of a baron treading the waters of genteel poverty?”

“For that very reason.” When Bram continued to look unconvinced, Leo continued. “Had she come with a fortune of her own, one that matched or was greater than the one I possess, it would serve only to divide us. She would hold it over my head as proof of her superiority.”

“I had no idea you were so mercenary, young Leopold.”

Leo looked askance at Bram. “A lecture? From the man who has debauched most of the female populace of London?”

His friend chuckled, though the sound was more a shadowed representation of laughter rather than the thing itself. “No lecture. All of us Hellraisers live in glass houses.”

“Damned drafty, those houses.” Leo shrugged. “Yet they’re better than dull, dense piles of stone.”

Bram patted an ornate plaster embellishment on the wall behind him. Everything in Leo’s home was new, this portion of Bloomsbury having been developed within the past few years. He had considered purchasing a townhome in Mayfair or Saint James’s. He had the money. Yet he wanted his own place, something entirely his.

“Now you have your house and your aristocratic bride. What more could you want?”

Now it was Leo’s turn to laugh. “There is always more. You, of all people, should know that.”

Understanding darkened Bram’s face. “Perhaps that is why Mr. Holliday picked us to be recipients of his gifts.”

The mention of the Hellraisers’ benefactor reminded Leo that the threat could no longer be ignored. “Find John. I’ll collect Edmund, then we shall all meet in my study.”

“Leave your wedding celebration?”

“For a few moments only. We must discuss Whit.”

Bram’s expression tightened. Of all of the Hellraisers, Bram had been closest to Whit. The betrayal had cut Bram deeply. Even months later, Leo saw the pain was still fresh.

Bram strode away in search of John, while Leo went to find Edmund. As he strolled through the chamber, guests continued to come up and wish him joy of his marriage. He accepted their felicitations, and felt a hard, sharp thrill to see his noble guests’ silken finery strewn with crumbs and stained with wine from his table.

Eat and drink, you bastards. Stuff yourselves stupid, drink yourselves senseless. You’ll be too fat and drunk to notice me tearing you to pieces.

He found Edmund watching the dancers and clapping along with the music.

“You aren’t dancing,” Leo noted. “You always dance.”

“Now my dances are reserved for Rosalind.”

“Dancing only with your wife? How provincial.”

Edmund merely smiled. “With her, I am content to be the most unfashionable of men.”

“You should have brought her.”

At this, Edmund’s usually cheerful expression dimmed. “Having her attend a social function such as this so soon ...”

Leo nodded in understanding. Rosalind’s first husband had died in a carriage accident not two months earlier. A month after that, she and Edmund had wed. There had been scandalized murmurs about how quickly the marriage had taken place. A few had even suspected that Edmund had somehow engineered the accident in order to finally gain the hand of the woman denied him years ago. The rumors never took seed—nobody could believe such an amiable man as Edmund could possibly do something so brutal and calculating.

But Leo knew the truth. As did Bram and John. And they would tell no one. For it was their truth, too. One far beyond the understanding of ordinary folk.

Whit also knew the truth. Yet he could do much worse than damage their reputations.