Hill had grinned. “Well, Highness, I suppose that you, of all people, would have that king’s ransom. Be forewarned—you’ll spend every pence. The wood’s surely all rotted and the stone crumbling from the damp. Aye, come to call in Sussex. The owners are my neighbors to the east. I’ll speak with them and determine their inclination to sell, if you like.”

“I would be in your debt,” Leo had said.

A day later, the invitation to Sussex had arrived, and Leo had been very pleased with himself. Perhaps he was cleverer than he’d understood. When he entered the home of Lord Hill in Sussex, it was with full confidence, which he carried with him squarely in his puffed-up chest until the moment he’d asked a footman if Miss Ann Marble could be brought round upon his departure.

“Miss Marble is no longer employed here, Your Highness. She’s taken a position with Lord Russell.”

That knocked the smile from Leo’s face. That was not supposed to have happened. He’d gained his way into Hill’s house, and she was to be here, dammit! Leo had not thought once about the possibility she would not be where Lysander had said she would be.

“Ah. Well, then,” he said dumbly.

“Shall I send a messen—”

“No. Not necessary, not at all. Thank you.” Leo had forced himself to smile and then strode away from that footman.

To add insult to that injury, Leo discovered he did not have a very good reason to lose interest in the castle now that Lord Hill had gone to considerable lengths to research it for him. He’d left that afternoon with the uneasy feeling he’d just bought himself an old ruin.

He should have stopped then, should have plainly recognized that he was no match for this dilemma. It wasn’t as if he could move around London unnoticed.

He glanced disparagingly at the offending gazette the footman had laid on the table with the other morning papers.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop, because his bloody conscience, which had suddenly decided to make an appearance, wouldn’t allow it. The five names in his pocket would not allow it. His dirty little list of five names he could not forget: Nina, Isidora, Eowyn, Jacleen, Rasa.

They were the names of Weslorian women who’d been sold into slavery. Or worse. Leo tried not to think about the worst of it.

This was what Lysander had wanted so desperately to tell him in the palace gardens. He’d wanted to explain to Leo that powerful, rich men were working together to purchase young women from poor families and sell them to other powerful men with influence in foreign and trade policy. They were bartering living, breathing human beings for political favor.

Leo was so alarmed when Lysander had told him that he’d not wanted to hear it. “Why are you telling me?” he’d demanded of Lysander, feeling desperate to unhear it. “I can’t help you.”

Lysander’s steady smile was eerie. “On the contrary, Highness, you may very well be the only person who can help me.”

But Leo was shaking his head before Lysander finished speaking. “I will put you before whomever you must speak to in order to end this practice, sir, but I can’t help you. I am to England on the morrow.” Leo could recall pacing that garden, wishing desperately he was already on a ship, away from such wretched tales, away from ceremony, away from his place as a prince in his country.

But Lysander would not let him flee so easily. “One of the men involved is an Alucian lord who has made a fortune developing ironworks here, in Alucia. You might have seen the chimneys just outside Helenamar. You may be familiar with the gentleman, Highness, as he accompanied your brother to England to advise him on the trade agreement. Lord Vinters?”

Leo had stopped in his tracks. Marcellus Vinters was a trusted adviser to his father.

“He has strong ties to England and has arranged to bring British advancements to his business. He is the broker, so to speak.”

“The broker,” Leo had repeated, not understanding.

“The Weslorians want to share in the advancements. This arrangement is a simple commodity exchange—the Weslorian provides the girls. Lord Vinters trades them for the advancements and favorable trade terms for the Weslorians.”

That meant, then, that Vinters was working against the interests of Alucia. It had been almost more than Leo could absorb, but then Lysander had said the thing that changed everything. “The Weslorian broker is the Duke of Brondeny.”

Leo’s stomach had dropped at the mention of Lady Eulalie’s father. That was impossible. His dealings would have been thoroughly scrutinized by the Alucians. They would not risk a scandal like this if Leo was to marry his daughter. Which meant his father didn’t know about the scheme? “That’s impossible. Vinters is a close confidant of my father. He would not negotiate trade for Wesloria. He would not trade in slavery.”

“You know as well as I that industrialization depends on iron,” Lysander had said calmly. “To industrialize is to survive, to be strong. Wesloria must industrialize, and they are willing to pay the price.”

“And Vinters? What does he gain?”

Lysander shrugged. “Favor, perhaps? There are many who believe that Wesloria will never be as strong as Alucia without an Oberon on the throne, and more still who believe an Oberon on the throne will be the end of Alucia. Perhaps Vinters is gambling.” He’d tilted his head to one side and studied Leo a moment. “You know how these things happen.”

“No, I don’t know,” Leo had protested. “I don’t know anything. I am not my brother, sir. I am the spare.” That, he thought, was glaringly obvious.

But Lysander stared at him with golden eyes, and Leo had felt as if the man could see to the very bottom of his soul.

“You can’t bring me this news here,” Leo had added quickly. He might not know about these practices, but he knew what sort of uproar it would cause if anyone close to his father was to hear this. Frankly, Leo wasn’t certain his father would take his word over Vinters’s.

But Lysander had pressed on, mentioning the maid Ann Marble. Leo had stopped him, had asked him to meet later at Jean Franck’s house. They were practically in earshot of the king, for God’s sake.

That afternoon, Leo had wanted nothing more than to turn a blind eye to the appalling things Lysander had laid at his feet. And yet, at the same time, he was compelled to know more. If this was truly happening, he had an innate desire to crush those men. Even if one of them was to be his future father-in-law. Especially if.

But Lysander never appeared at his friend’s house, as he’d been apprehended that very afternoon in the palace gardens. Still, Leo thought perhaps his two henchmen might come.

No one came.

Leo heard nothing more until he was preparing to leave the palace to board his ship. As he waited for the footmen to load his trunks into a wagon, he overheard two government men talking. They said Lysander had been sent to Wesloria to answer for alleged crimes there.

“Aye, let the Weslorians have at him,” one of the men had said behind him. “They’ll make quick work of him.”

Leo had swallowed down a lump. That, then, he surmised, was the end of it. What could he possibly do without Lysander to advise him?

But that was not the end of it.

When the ship arrived in London in the middle of the day, the docks were teeming. The crew of his ship was eager to discharge their duties and have their time on shore. As Leo watched men move crates and trunks and God knew what all, a sailor inadvertently bumped into him, touching his hand. Startled, Leo turned and realized that the sailor was slipping a paper into his hand.

“What is this?” Leo asked.

“From Lysander,” the sailor said. “Find one, find them all. Bring them home, and let the dust settle where it may.”

“Pardon?” Leo looked up, confused—but the man had disappeared into the throng of working men.

Leo unfolded the page. Listed were five feminine names. Those names—and the faces he imagined to go with them—were the reason he couldn’t stop his attempts, bungled as they may be, to speak to Ann Marble. She had to know something.

His first instinct had been to send the names to Bas with a note explaining what little he knew. But Leo had quickly discarded that idea. Bas was honeymooning. Moreover, Bas had carried the mantle of greater responsibility between the two of them all their lives. He’d worked to make things better in Alucia while Leo had worked to avoid any responsibility. Bas had earned the reputation of being smart and capable, and Leo had earned the reputation of being a rogue, a profligate. And this...this horrible business was happening in England, right under his nose.

Maybe, after living with such grace and privilege, it was time he did something for someone else.

But he wasn’t exactly versed in the practical ways of the world. There was, and had always been, someone close by to do everything he needed. How he might even attempt to find these women was a mystery to him. And what if he did find them? Then what? Was he to command them into his carriage and bring them...where? Here? To this hotel?

He was no hero. If he allowed himself to think too much about it, Leo could drown in a sea of self-doubt. And yet, at some point, it had occurred to him that Lysander was right—he was uniquely qualified to do something about this, precisely because he was a useless prince. His title alone gave him entry into practically any house in London that he liked. His title alone attracted the attention of women, and his title alone had afforded him many opportunities to practice his charms. If there was a man who could walk into the houses where these women were kept, it was him. If there was a man who could convince these women to leave with him, to come forward, to speak, it wasn’t the hulking Lysander. It was him.

All he had to do was find Ann Marble. Isn’t that why Lysander had mentioned her? Leo wished he could remember precisely what he’d said, but he had to believe that if he found Ann Marble, he could find these women. Find one, find them all.

Unfortunately, after his visit to Lord Hill, he’d discovered that Ann Marble was no longer in Lord Russell’s employ, either. No. She was now cleaning rooms in the home of Lord Beckett Hawke.

What a small world it was.


A LIGHT RAIN had begun to fall when Leo reached the Upper Brook Street mansion where Hawke and his sister resided most of the year. Hawke had said once that in the unbearable months of summer they decamped to a family house in the Cotswolds. Leo was flanked by Kadro and Artur as he jogged up to the door. Kadro reached forward and rapped on the door. Several moments passed before the door swung open and Hawke filled the frame. He was still wearing his dressing gown. Dark shadows accentuated his green eyes, and his darkly golden hair appeared to be standing on end. Leo’s first instinct was that Lady Caroline had died.

But then Hawke grinned and said jovially, “Highness! You’ve come just in time. The fever broke last night.”

“That is welcome news indeed, friend.”

Hawke threw his arm around Leo’s shoulders and hauled him inside. “Come in, come in, all of you. No need to guard him here, eh, lads? We’ll have ale. No! Better yet, we’ll have gin. A toast to my sister’s health. Garrett! Where are you, Garrett?” he bellowed, calling his butler.

Kadro and Artur did not move from their post at the door. Hawke didn’t seem to notice. He let go Leo and padded into the salon, barefoot, his silk dressing gown billowing out behind him. “Garrett, come here!”

Leo glanced back at his guards and, with a tip of his chin, sent them outside to wait, then followed Hawke into his study. The place was disastrously cluttered. Books had been tossed onto the settee; more of them, once stacked near the hearth, had toppled over. Morning papers were stacked haphazardly on a table. There was a pile of what looked like clothing, but Leo wasn’t entirely certain. On the desk, dishes from a previous meal. It appeared as if Beckett Hawke was living in this room.

Garrett entered and bowed, then offered to take the flowers and whisky from Leo.

“What good news it is to hear your sister has recovered,” Leo said.

“She still drifts in and out of sleep. It’s to be expected. She’s hardly eaten a thing,” Hawke said. He made his way to the sideboard, waving off Garrett, who juggled the flowers and the whisky in his hands. Hawke uncorked a bottle and poured gin into two glasses.

“Has she spoken yet?” Leo asked.

Hawke looked at Leo and grinned. “Oh, but she has. She accused me of causing her fever by hovering so close to her side and sent me from her room.” He laughed. “That is a very good sign. If she is cross with me, she is feeling herself again. Is that not so, Garrett?”