The Duke's Secret

London, 1814. Miss Harriet Lyle had three rules for investigative journalism: never reveal your sources, never accept a drink you did not pour yourself, and never, under any circumstances, develop feelings for the subject of your inquiry. She had broken the third rule precisely once, and the experience had cured her so thoroughly that she considered herself immune. This confidence would prove, in retrospect, spectacularly misplaced.

The Duke of Ashworth was the most celebrated man in London and the most opaque. His charitable works were legendary, his manners impeccable, his fortune vast and apparently self-renewing. He had no scandals, no debts, no mistresses that anyone could identify. This perfection, Harriet knew from experience, was itself the scandal. Nobody was that clean. The question was not whether the Duke had secrets but how deep they were buried.

She obtained an invitation to the Ashworth spring ball through a complicated favor economy that involved a forged letter of introduction and a genuine promise to a viscount's valet. The ballroom was ablaze with candlelight, the orchestra competent, the champagne French. Harriet positioned herself near a potted fern with a clear sightline to the Duke and prepared to observe. She was not prepared for him to cross the room directly toward her, bow with an elegance that bordered on satirical, and say, "Miss Lyle. I have beenreading your column with great interest. Shall we discuss what you think you know, or would you prefer to continue lurking behind the foliage?"