He’d known that they weren’t going to find anything. Or if he hadn’t known it, he had been almost sure of it. And he’d come tonight mostly just to humor her. Hyacinth decided she loved him all the more for that.

But now, his expression, his aspect, everything in his voice seemed to say one thing—We tried, we lost, can we please just move on?

There was no satisfied smirk, no “I told you so,” just a flat, matter-of-fact stare, with perhaps the barest hint of disappointment, as if a tiny corner of him had been hoping to be proven wrong.

“Hyacinth?” Gareth said, when she didn’t reply.

“I…Well…” She didn’t know what to say.

“We haven’t much time,” he cut in, his face taking on a steely expression. Clearly, her time for reflection was over. He rose to his feet, brushing his hands against each other to rid them of dust. The baroness’s bedchamber had been shut off, and it didn’t appear to be on a regular cleaning schedule. “Tonight is the baron’s monthly meeting with his hound-breeding club.”

“Hound-breeding?” Hyacinth echoed. “In London?”

“They meet on the last Tuesday of the month without fail,” Gareth explained. “They have been doing it for years. To keep abreast of pertinent knowledge while they’re in London.”

“Does pertinent knowledge change very often?” Hyacinth asked. It was just the sort of random tidbit of information that always interested her.

“I have no idea,” Gareth replied briskly. “It’s probably just an excuse to get together and drink. The meetings always end at eleven, and then they spend about two hours in social discourse. Which means the baron will be home”—he pulled out his pocket watch and swore under his breath—“now.”

Hyacinth nodded glumly. “I give up,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever uttered those words while not under duress, but I give up.”

Gareth chucked her softly under her chin. “It’s not the end of the world, Hy. And just think, you may resume your mission once the baron finally kicks off, and I inherit the house. Which,” he added thoughtfully, “I actually have some right to.” He shook his head. “Imagine that.”

“Do you think Isabella meant for anyone to find them?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Gareth replied. “One would think that if she had, she might have chosen a more accessible language for her final hint than Slovene.”

“We should go,” Hyacinth said, sighing. “I need to return home in any case. If I’m to pester my mother for a change in the wedding date, I want to do it now, while she’s sleepy and easy to sway.”

Gareth looked at her over his shoulder as he placed his hand on the doorknob. “You are diabolical.”

“You didn’t believe it before?”

He smiled, then gave her a nod when it was safe to creep out into the hall. Together they moved down the stairs to the drawing room with the faulty window. Swiftly and silently, they slipped outside and hopped down to the alley below.

Gareth walked in front, stopping at the alley’s end and stretching one arm behind him to keep Hyacinth at a distance while he peered out onto Dover Street.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, jerking his head toward the street. They had come over in a hansom cab—Gareth’s apartments were not quite close enough to walk—and they’d left it waiting two intersections away. It wasn’t really necessary to ride back to Hyacinth’s house, which was just on the other side of Mayfair, but Gareth had decided that as long as they had the cab, they might as well make use of it. There was a good spot where they could be let out, right around the corner from Number Five, that was set back in shadows and with very few windows looking out upon it.

“This way,” Gareth said, taking Hyacinth’s hand and tugging her along. “Come on, we can—”

He stopped, stumbled. Hyacinth had halted in her tracks.

“What is it?” he hissed, turning to look at her.

But she wasn’t looking at him. Instead, her eyes were focused on something—someone—to the right.

The baron.

Gareth froze. Lord St. Clair—his father, his uncle, whatever he should call him—was standing at the top of the steps leading to Clair House. His key was in his hand, and he had obviously spotted them just as he was about to enter the building.

“This is interesting,” the baron said. His eyes glittered.

Gareth felt his chest puff out, some sort of instinctive show of bravado as he pushed Hyacinth partly behind him. “Sir,” he said. It was all he’d ever called the man, and some habits were hard to break.

“Imagine my curiosity,” the baron murmured. “This is the second time I have run across you here in the middle of the night.”

Gareth said nothing.

“And now”—Lord St. Clair motioned to Hyacinth—“you have brought your lovely betrothed with you. Un-orthodox, I must say. Does her family know she is running about after midnight?”

“What do you want?” Gareth asked in a hard voice.

But the baron only chuckled. “I believe the more pertinent question is what do you want? Unless you intend to attempt to convince me that you are just here for the fresh night air.”

Gareth stared at him, looking for signs of resemblance. They were all there—the nose, the eyes, the way they held their shoulders. It was why Gareth had never, until that fateful day in the baron’s office, thought he might be a bastard. He’d been so baffled as a child; his father had treated him with such contempt. Once he’d grown old enough to understand a bit of what went on between men and women, he had wondered about it—his mother’s infidelity would seem a likely explanation for his father’s behavior toward him.