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gruesome, prison-like workhouse. Whitehall had promised to pay those debts, if she found the proof he needed. “But I want to know why you believe he is a traitor, Mr. Whitehall.”
    Whitehall stiffened. “It is enough that I know he is.”
    “From a very brief encounter with the Duke of Greybrooke, I learned he is a charming scoundrel and a man with very lax morals. At that moment, I did think him capable of betraying his country. But since then, I have changed my mind.”
    “I am not interested in your personal thoughts, Miss Winsome. I thought that was clear when you accepted this assignment. You have a job to do, for which you will be generously paid.”
    She pursed her lips. “I do not do any task blindly, Mr. Whitehall.”
    “Helena, don’t,” muttered Will. His handsome face was pale with worry.
    But she had to. There was something very wrong. The duke had been bold and naughty. But now that she’d had a chance to calm down, she realized Greybrooke had been deliberately teasing her.
    “Greybrooke saved his nephew’s life, snatching him up before he was hit by a carriage,” she said. “The duke obviously adores his niece and nephews. Would such a man be willing to destroy their country?”
    Will put his hand on her arm. “Helena, we must do as Mr. Whitehall asks.”
    “But what if we cannot find proof because he is innocent?” she asked. “Will you still save my brother from his gaming debts?”
    Pure panic flashed in Will’s eyes. Icy cold radiated from Whitehall’s small eyes. “There is no doubt you will find evidence, Miss Winsome, because Greybrooke is guilty.”
    “But why are you certain?” she pressed. “The duke does not seem to have been impoverished or indebted, so he did not need money. He appears to have no interest in politics.”
    “Secrets,” Whitehall said. “There are secrets over which a man can be blackmailed to do anything.”
    “Goodness, I’ve heard nothing about any scandals like that in Greybrooke’s life. I know there are rumors about his father’s death. But that would not make a duke betray his country.”
    “The Duke of Greybrooke has secrets, Miss Winsome. It is your job to find them. And if you do not succeed quickly, your family will lose everything.”
    Whitehall rapped on the ceiling—a signal the carriage was to return to the mews.
    “What you need to do, Miss Winsome, is get into the duke’s house. Search for letters. Diaries.” Whitehall’s eyes glittered coldly. “Remember: One of the most expedient ways to get into Greybrooke’s house is through his bed.”
     
    “The world must be coming to an end. My brother is out of his bed in the morning.”
    Ignoring his sister’s playful sarcasm, Grey went to Jacinta, rested his hands on the back of her chair, and lightly kissed the top of her head. She twisted in her seat, her hand on her rounded belly. A stack of folded letters sat in front of her on the blotter of her writing desk. Rain beat against the windows, but a fire crackled in the grate, giving his sister’s morning room cheery warmth. Two lamps were lit on the desk, casting a halo of gold around her honey-blond hair.
    Deep warmth always flooded his heart when he was with his sister and her family. Carrying her fifth child and growing close to her confinement, Jacinta glowed. She also wore a suspiciously devilish smile.
    Batting her long lashes, she struggled to look innocent. “Did any ladies try to brain you with a chamber pot on your way here, my dearest brother?”
    “Fortunately not,” he said. “As for being your dearest brother, I am your only brother. You only call me ‘dearest’ when you’re up to something.”
    She tipped her head to the side, widening her green eyes. “Grey, I am not doing anything wrong. I am simply writing invitations.”
    Damnation. “What sort of invitations?”
    “I am planning a ball—my last before my confinement. I must decide which of the year’s eligible ladies I should invite.”
    “Your