“As the Duke of Sherwyn, you’ve entree into the best houses and social events.” 

After a scowl towards the ceiling, he muttered, “Thanks to my stepmother, I’m forced into it. But what does my recent social popularity have to do with your current predicament?” 

“In daylight, with other ladies, I can stroll about the streets. Visit shops, sometimes slip unnoticed into the twice-weekly stock auctions at the Hall of Commerce in Threadneedle Street. And I’ve already searched the desks of many of the mere misters and lesser peers of the lower orders of the consortium, as their houses aren’t guarded like fortresses.” 

“Do you mean to say you entered these men’s homes and rifled their papers?” 

“Well yes, but–” 

“Are you mad?” 

“I risked little, because those sort of houses cannot afford a footman guarding every passageway. Especially not on occasions such as those I attended, where every footman is needed to fetch drinks for belligerent guests. Slipping into those libraries was child’s play.” She sighed. “What I cannot do is visit the homes of the highest ranking peers to scour their correspondence for any that bears the special seal of the consortium. Nor secure enough privacy to copy any incriminating letters I may find. Someone always hovers, and watches, at those type of houses.” 

He paced before her like a restless panther, an angry scowl pulling his face taut. His fine looks had always turned heads, but this brooding beast carried a lethal combination of strength and menacing masculinity. She shivered. His newly acquired arrogance of bearing enhanced, rather than detracted from, his magnetism, although this time, she knew to avoid his magnetic pull. 

“You intend searching the houses of every peer in the city who is making money from stock shares?” 

“No, no, not all of them. We’ve done a lot of research–” 

“We?” 

“My family have become quite adept at research. We’ve narrowed our search to gentlemen known to invest in railway expansions in a large way. Our final list is of those we consider to be involved in the inner, and most secret, tier of the syndicate. It contains eighteen names, the majority of whom are high-ranking peers. 

“Bloody hell, Becca.” He ground the expletive out through clenched teeth. “You’re out of your depth. I’ve been involved in similar commercial groups. They’ll stop at nothing for the sake of money.” 

“Nevertheless, we need certain details you may overhear at clubs about certain gentlemen having sudden windfalls. Or things gleaned at certain balls and soirees. 

“Unbelievable.” Both hands went up in the air. “That’s certainly as clear as muddy water.” 

“Clear or not, I’m asking you to trust me. To help me.” 

She held out both hands, palms up, and hoped he wouldn’t notice their tremors. “With your assistance, I can verify more names. Collect proof of each one’s involvement and hand it over to Scotland Yard. Time is of the essence, as we’ve now less than two weeks.” 

She watched him absorb, assess, decide. In under a minute, he guided her to his desk and seated her before it. 

“Make a start. List the names of every man you suspect to be a member.” He placed writing materials before her. “Then list those you consider inner tier, and include their ranking.” 

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