It wasn’t a disapproving look. Piers was impressed. He knew she was clever, but he wouldn’t have expected her skills of deduction to be quite this keen.

She continued, “Once I’ve narrowed the suspects, identifying the female lover ought to be simple. From there, it’s only a question of following the woman to find the man. With any luck, I should learn the names of the mystery lovers within a matter of days.”

“How do you know they were mystery lovers?”

She paused. “What do you mean?”

“To use the word ‘lovers’ suggests a degree of sentiment. There’s lovemaking, and then there’s . . .” He sifted through the possibilities before opting for the least shocking of the vulgar terms. “Tupping.”

“What’s the difference?”

What, indeed. “An unprincipled man might take that as an invitation to demonstrate.”

“Fortunately, you’re as principled as they come.”

She couldn’t have been more wrong on that point. “Suffice it to say, the tryst we overheard fell into the tupping category. It lacked a certain . . . finesse.”

“Perhaps you merely lack imagination.”

Piers shook his head, amused. He did not lack for imagination.

At that very moment, he was entertaining a vivid fantasy of pressing her against the mirrored wall. Watching the shafts of light gild her eyelashes and play across her lips. Kissing her slowly, easing her into a fog of passion. Then—only when she was pleading for more—lifting her muslin skirts, sinking to his knees, and tasting her sweetness. Taking his time about it. Giving her pleasure again and again.

And then again.

That, he would tell her, was how lovemaking worked.

He gave himself a mental shake. Enough. That idea would keep until after the wedding. There happened to be a mirror or two—or hundreds—at his estate.

And his estate was exactly where she needed to be. Once he had her wedded and bedded and tucked away in the country, he could get a firm grip on himself.

“You may call them what you wish,” she said. “I choose to believe they were lovers. And I’m going to find them.”

“You can’t traipse about Nottinghamshire playing at solving mysteries. It’s not only improper, it’s too late. We have an understanding.”

“We may have an understanding, but it is not too late. Not too late to find the lovers, and not too late for us.” Her blue eyes deepened with sincerity. “I want to marry for love. And I think highly enough of you to want that for you, too. You’re a decent, honorable man.”

Sweet, innocent girl. She had no idea. Her powers of deduction might be keen, but he must never allow her to deduce the truth about him. Decent? Honorable? Not even close. Try ruthless, darling. Deceitful, cold-blooded, heartless, and worse.

“Charlotte, I—”

“You don’t want love, I know. You think it will make you weak somehow, but you’re wrong. So wrong. Love with the right person makes people stronger. Better than they ever could have been apart. I know it. I’ve seen it. That’s why I’m going to solve this mystery. We both deserve better than a patched-up affair based on half-truths.”

“We are not marrying based on half-truths,” he said. “We are marrying based on the fact that I pulled you into a clandestine embrace in the window seat. That alone was improper enough.”

“Only in the strictest definition of the word.”

“Strict definitions are the ones that matter.”

He didn’t like the idea of Charlotte running about the neighborhood, sniffing ladies’ perfume and sizing up their thighs. But then, there might be a benefit: If she was occupied quizzing the local populace about their garters, she wouldn’t be asking probing questions of him.

Nevertheless, it was an imprudent plan—one that could go wrong in any number of ways.

“I can’t support this scheme of yours,” he told her. “I certainly won’t aid you.”

“I never expected to have your help.” She tipped a coquettish glance at him through her lashes. “I daresay it’s your loss, however. I think you could use a bit of intrigue in your life.”

Oh, Charlotte. You have no idea.

“Answer me this,” he said. “When you fail to find—”

She shot him a wounded look.

He revised. “If you fail to find these mystery tuppers by the end of the fortnight, what then? Do you intend to refuse me and embrace ruin?”

She looked into the distance. “I’m not stupid.”

No, he thought. She wasn’t stupid. Far from it, in fact. She was clever, stubborn, and—as he was coming to appreciate—dangerously perceptive.

That was precisely what had him concerned.

Shortly after luncheon, Charlotte received a summons from her mother. She put off answering it for an hour, then two. At last she reasoned she might as well have done with it.

On her way to Mama’s room, however, Frances Parkhurst stopped her in the corridor. “A word, Miss Highwood?”

Charlotte couldn’t find any reason to refuse.

Frances spoke in a low voice. “I want you to know I care very deeply about my sister.”

“I care about Delia, too. She’s become my closest friend.”

Frances eyed her with suspicion. “Truly? Because you seemed to be making close friends with Lord Granville earlier today. In the music room.”

“You spied on us?”

“I didn’t need to spy. The door was open.”

“In that case, you should know that we were merely talking.”

We were merely talking.

How many times had she uttered that phrase in recent days? Charlotte was growing weary—not only of saying it, but of no one believing her.

“He would never have you,” Frances said. “You will only embarrass the marquess and yourself if you persist in chasing him.”

The nerve of her. At her side, Charlotte’s hand curled into a fist.

She thinks she’s protecting Delia, she reminded herself. You can’t blame her for it. She only knows you from the scandal sheets.

“I’m not chasing Lord Granville,” she said.

“Oh, please. Do you think I don’t know how you and your grasping mother think? I tell you, your hopes for an advantageous match are laughable. You are without accomplishment. Your bloodlines are nothing to boast about. Atop it all, you are utterly shameless. Once the rest of London grew wise to your true nature, you cozied up to my sister.”