CHAPTER ONE

What a day.

Asher rubbed the bridge of his nose between his eyebrows, as though he could erase the headache that was gnawing at him — that always did after a morning spent with his mother and his sister.

He loved them more than anyone, but they still drove him mad.

This was not the life he had planned for himself. A life of responsibility, of providing pin money to his mother and deciding which charities to support and how to make sure there was enough revenue being produced from all of the estates to fund their way of life.

All he was supposed to be worried about was how to spend his allowance.

But everything had changed rather more abruptly than he had intended.

Bypassing the gentlemen’s clubs of Pall Mall, he stepped through the doors of the British Institution — one place in London where he often came to find a little peace and to challenge himself, in a way that had no effect on anyone else.

Despite its modest exterior, the building opened up into a cool, quiet entry lined with marble tiles. Asher gave his hat and gloves to a footman before presenting his admission token, allowing the faint scent of beeswax and polish to soothe his frazzled soul.

He checked the front table, bypassing the announcements of current exhibitions, featured artists, and commentaries, instead focused on the puzzle that sat in the center of it all.

Good. It was not yet solved. Perhaps today — finally — he could be the first. Despite appearing daily to try to solve the puzzle before any other codebreakers, he had been thwarted, time and again, but another guest seemed to be able to solve it in moments.

He was very intrigued to meet the man who showed such intellect.

Asher lifted the printed card.

I am a master who never held a brush,

Yet many painters follow in my shadow.

I contain a battle where no sword was raised,

And a journey walked by none.

Seek me in the third chamber,

Where Knight and Maiden face one another.

There, find the error inked in haste:

A number which betrays my name.

Asher repeated the words in his head as he peaked into the first gallery, the central exhibition space, high ceilings with skylights washing the room in natural light as paintings hung in a salon style from floor to ceiling. The elegant benches scattered throughout were nearly empty at this time of day. He moved on from the room featuring paintings from old masters to the second gallery, which he far preferred. It was quieter, the paintings smaller, more intimate.

But he had to guess that the clue meant the third gallery, where all of the historical objects were gathered.

The quiet of the fine art institution was broken only but the soft swish of silk skirts, the scrape of pencils, and scholars in low discussions.

Asher guessed the clue led to a tapestry, but that was as far as he had gotten.

The chamber was empty but for a woman, whose back was to him as she studied a grouping of tapestries on the wall. Her dark hair was pulled back in a low chignon, her head unadorned. She was tapping a finger against her chin, and for a moment, Asher stood still in the doorway, taking her in.

He couldn’t say what it was about her, but she captured his attention, soothed him with the calm in her demeanor. Her profile was beautiful, yes, but it was more than her looks that called to him. Perhaps it was how intently she was studying the tapestry in front of her, as though she could learn all of its secrets through her stare. She was so transfixed, she didn’t even notice him there, staring at her.

One thing was for certain — she was in his way.

He took a step beside her, looking around for a chaperone who might be wary of his presence, but none appeared. She seemed rather familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Likely a daughter of one of his peers.

He’d been avoiding most young women her age, however, as so many had been pushed his way as of late. After a few too many near misses with overzealous ladies who thought a stolen moment alone with him meant a lifetime of marriage, he had decided the best course for now was to avoid them all.

“No sword,” she was whispering to herself, and he leaned in, intrigued. “The Judgment of Paris, The Abduction of Helen, or The Summons to War, perhaps?”

She was standing on her toes now, peering up at the tapestries that covered the wall from floor to ceiling.

With a shake of her head, she walked to the corner of the room, found a small ladder, and brought it to the middle, stepping up to the top rung to look around the room. Asher could only watch her, transfixed.

“There,” she said, smiling as she leaned forward — so far forward that her foot slipped, and her hands waved in the air for a moment before she righted herself. “Hector’s Departure,” she said in satisfaction. “But the number…” she tapped her finger against her lips again for a moment, before she leaned over to reach for something in a pocket of those voluminous skirts… and then, before either of them could adequately prepare for it, she did exactly what Asher had worried about — she pitched right off the side of the step.

Just in time and thanks to reflexes honed from years of being up to no good, Asher stepped forward and caught her seconds before she was about to hit the floor.

Her eyes were closed, her breath held, until she must have realized that she had not hit or suffered any injuries, and her eyes opened slowly, cautiously, widening dramatically when she saw his face in front of hers, his arms wrapped around her back.

Asher realized he was likely holding her a moment too long, but he was rather enjoying the feel of her in his arms.

It had been far too long since he had been so close to a woman — ever since he had inherited this cursed dukedom, in fact — and her soft curves and sweet scent instantly soothed him.

She must have been aware that he was taking advantage of the moment, for she pushed him away and quickly scrambled backwards, as awkward and uncomfortable as it was.

And then she whacked him with her notebook.

It wasn’t hard, not causing Asher to do much more than flinch, but still, he stared at her in astonishment.

“What was that for?”

“For putting your hands on me!”

“Putting my hands on you?” he returned incredulously. “I just saved you!”

“Saved me?” she scoffed. “I merely stepped off the ladder.”

“You did not. You fell because you were distracted.”

“I was not distracted.”

“You were. You were reaching for something in your pocket.”

She frowned for a moment before recognition dawned. “Oh yes. My pencil.”

“What were you going to do with that?”

“Solve the riddle, of course,” she said with a grin that could have lit up the room. It moved something within Asher’s chest, and he realized it was jealousy that she could feel such joy.

Joy that he himself hadn’t felt forever.

He stared at her, realization falling over him, even though he didn’t let himself fully believe it.

“Are you the one solving the riddles?”

“I am,” she said, although there was some caution in her tone, as though she had pulled down a wall between them. She watched him, waiting for his reaction.

“I don’t believe it,” he said before thinking.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Her gaze darkened, eyes narrowing at him.

“I’d expect nothing less,” she said, before turning on her heel and walking out of the room.

* * *

The nerve.

Evelyn was used to people underestimating her.

It was why she usually tried to hide how quickly and efficiently her mind worked.

But not here. No, the British Institution was one place where intellect was celebrated, and she was not going to allow this duke to make her feel that she was anything less than she was.

She was storming down the hallway when a large, warm hand wrapped around her elbow. Instead of stopping her or pulling her back, however, he held on while he kept pace with her.

“Will you allow me to explain?”

“No.”

“Please?”

It must have been the erstwhile way he said it that finally brought her to an abrupt stop, and she whirled around, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited for this supposed apology.

“Well?” she said, tapping her foot as she waited. He had better be quick. She had a prize to claim.

“My apologies,” he said, appearing much more ruffled than she would have expected as he scratched his head and looked down at her. He was much bigger than she had realized, his hands large, his presence as domineering as he always appeared when he glowered from the side of the dance floor in ballrooms. She hadn’t known his eyes were so blue. Now she would never be able to forget. “I was taken aback.”

“Now you know,” she said, turning once more. It was best she leave quickly, before she came more enamored with his masculinity. He would never be interested in a woman like her, so she shouldn’t give him a second thought, for it would only lead to her own disappointment.

Besides, his attractiveness didn’t change the fact that he was as ?? as the rest of the gentlemen she was acquainted with.

“How did you solve it?” he called out after her, and Evelyn paused. She should ignore him, keep walking, but… it wasn’t often someone was interested in learning how her mind worked.

She knew he was only asking to appease his ego, and yet she still couldn’t help wanting to take the opportunity to discuss it with him.

“It’s actually a fairly simple riddle,” she said. “How far did you get?”

“I knew that it was a tapestry,” he said, looking down somewhat abashedly. “I didn’t get much further as I was busy saving a woman’s life.”

It took everything within Evelyn to keep from rolling her eyes.

“The second line was fairly simple. It was regarding battle preparation. That just took a quick perusal of the tapestries available.”

“What about the last lines?”

“That an error was made on purpose. The catalogue is wrong. They mislabeled Hector’s Departure as No. XV. It should be X.”

He stared at her unblinkingly.

“Well, your grace, is that will be all—”

“How do you know how I am?”

Evelyn let out a small laugh as she stared up at him. “You are the unmarried Duke of Ravenscar. Everyone knows who you are. I’ve heard your name spoken often enough every time you step in the room.”

She stopped suddenly, her lips pressing together as she tried to stop her flow of words.

“Please forget I ever said that.”

“No, please continue,” he said, smiling down at her with a spark in his eye. “I would love to hear what the ladies have to say.”

“Everything you would suspect,” she said, waving her hand in the air, wishing she could create a spark of magic that would allow her to disappear from this conversation. “That you are a handsome, unmarried, and need a duchess.”

“I see,” he said. “And what do you think?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Actually,” he said, stepping closer to her, closer than felt comfortable, “it matters very much.”

“I—”

“Evelyn!” her father’s voice cut through the growing tension between them as he stepped into the corridor, seeking her out. “What has taken you so long? Were you finally foiled?”

Their quick stop at the British Institution each morning usually didn’t last longer than the few minutes it took her to solve the puzzle.

“I must go,” she said. “Good day.”

And without a look behind her at the very handsome and very unattainable Duke of Ravenscar, she escaped.