As Heath stood in the parlor wearing nothing but his robe, his mind still muzzy from sleep, he wondered whether Grayson Young truly meant what he had written. After days spent making surreptitious inquiries around town—including Charleston’s many hotels and swankier establishments—Heath had learned nothing about the reticent man. No one, barring Branchfield and Steele, had ever heard of him, tweaking Heath’s suspicions. Now, suppressing a yawn, he looked from the note in his hand to the Mills House employee standing in the doorway. “How can I send a message to Mr. Young? Do you know if he’s staying at the Charleston Hotel?”

“Don’t know, sir,” the youth said. “But he is downstairs in a carriage awaiting your reply.”

“He is?” Frowning, Heath padded across the room to an open window overlooking Meeting Street. He rested his elbows on the sill and peered at the gleaming landau standing before the hotel’s main entrance four stories below. The teamster, elegantly attired in top hat and frock coat, held tight the reins of the princely black trotters as the flurry of city life surrounded and unnerved them. From this height and angle, the vehicle’s sectioned roof prevented a glimpse of the carriage’s occupant. Though the morning sun bathed him in warmth, Heath felt an abrupt chill pierce his spine. He pondered—if Grayson Young could afford such a splendid team of horses and a stately coach, not to mention his ability to invest tens of thousands in their risky business venture, how was it that no one in this city knew of such a well-to-do gentleman in their midst? The chill along Heath’s backside redoubled.

“You may inform Mr. Young I will be delighted to join him,” he finally said over his shoulder.

“Anything else, sir?”

Heath turned his back to the window and threw a side-glance toward the bedroom. “Also inform Mr. Young that I shall bring along a guest.”

“Very good, sir,” the youth said with a half-bow, then bounded away on his errand.

After rereading the note, Heath returned to the bedroom. Empty champagne bottles and dirty dishes stood as reminders of a late-night feast; clothing strewn about the room provided memories of the lovemaking session that had followed. Tempeste Rittenhouse, her hair creating a lustrous fan of russet-brown on the pillow beneath her head, rubbed her hazel eyes and yawned.

“Business?” she asked, her voice hesitant.

Heath tossed the note on a table, then sat on the mattress beside her. “Indirectly,” he replied. “Just an invitation from one of my business acquaintances to dine with him tomorrow evening.”

A look of contentment swept across her face. For the last few days, Tempeste had expressed her desire that his business remain unfinished, thereby keeping him in Charleston indefinitely. Numerous times, and in many creative ways, she had shown her fondness for him, and he was pleased.

“Indeed,” he continued, “you will accompany me, my dear.”

“Where?” she asked, sitting on the mattress behind him and peeling the robe from his torso. She kissed his shoulders, then wrapped her arms around him and stroked his chest.

“The Charleston Hotel—seven o’clock.”

Her arms tensed. “That’s a very elegant establishment.”

“And you’re a very elegant young lady. Besides, we’ve been there before. What’s the dilemma?”

Tempeste rested her chin on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to—well—cause you embarrassment.”

“How could you?”

“What if your business acquaintance and I have—I mean—” She rubbed her cheek against his and gave his torso a fierce squeeze. “What if he and I have—already—met?”

Her implication clear as glass, a wave of jealousy tightened Heath’s jaw. “But Mrs. Bettencourt kept your clientele to a select few. I don’t think that will pose a problem. This gentleman is new to Charleston”—another chill crept along Heath’s spine—“at least, that’s what I’ve been told. His name is Grayson Young. Sound familiar?”

She shook her head and bussed his temple.

Relief poured out of Heath in a long windy sigh. Though he would have been thrilled to have found someone who actually knew the mysterious Young, he didn’t want it to be the woman who shared his bed. “Splendid. We shall make tomorrow evening a night to remember,” he said, then looked about the room at her scattered attire. “Perhaps a new gown is required for such a lavish occasion?”

“Another present, Heath?” she asked through a wave of childlike giggles. “My word—you’ll spoil me for other gentlemen.”

Her breezy laugh and the use of his first name usually touched his heart, but the additional reminder of her profession churned his insides. He despised Mrs. Bettencourt for taking advantage of this beautiful and educated creature’s misfortune and forcing her into loathsome employment. He abhorred all the customers who had partaken in Tempeste’s favors before him. And, above all else, he cursed daily Tempeste’s unknown Sunday gentleman who thought it his right to abuse her with his devilish form of debauchery.

“You’ve given me so much already,” she continued, tugging at the hairs on his navel, “with all these days of wining and dining. Thanks to your generosity, I almost recall what it feels like to be a true lady. And for that, I am forever in your debt.”

Tempeste released him and grabbed a pouncet box from the bedside table. She held the perforated lid beneath her delicate nose and sniffed the perfume from within. Her eyes filled with the mist of fond reflection as her finger traced the floral designs on the lacquered woodwork. “No one apart from my father has ever given me such a wonderful keepsake. Every time I savor the lavender I shall always remember these glorious days and all you have done for me.”

Heath knew that he’d also never be able to smell lavender without thinking of this delightful courtesan and their passionate lovemaking. Perhaps once he married Asia Spears and settled into a house of his own, he would have the servants plant gardens of nothing but lavender over every inch of his property. Maybe he should also insist his bride wear the scent, then he, too, could keep his memories of these days with Tempeste alive.

Tempeste dried her eyes and kissed him. Her lips curved in a smile. “But enough is enough, Heath. I can’t allow you to buy me a gown. Good gracious—I have so many gowns in my room at Mrs. Bettencourt’s house. I could just—”

“As long as I’m in Charleston I will not have you going back to that bitch’s brothel. Therefore, a new gown is required.”

After setting the pouncet box on the table, Tempeste showered him in affection. As he luxuriated in her show of gratitude, he knew he had made the correct decision two days earlier.

That morning, the day following his business meeting, he had gone to the Farmers and Exchange Bank where he collected from Branchfield some of the promised advance of thirty-thousand dollars. Afterward, before returning to his hotel suite to celebrate, he called on Daphne Bettencourt with the sole purpose of extending his time with Tempeste.

After the widow welcomed him into her sumptuous parlor and offered him imported brandy, Heath sensed a change in the woman’s dignified manner. “When can I expect Tempeste’s return?” she asked, a nervous tremor cracking her regal voice.

“I’m here to purchase her companionship indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely? Dear me.” The white-haired dowager licked her lips. As she paced the carpet, her liver-spotted hands twisted a lace kerchief into a knot. In an instant, her usual unruffled appearance gave way to marginally concealed desperation. “Mr. Kingsbury, Tempeste is—well, I’m sure you’re quite aware of her countless charms. But you must understand something. She is a treasure. My prize. After all, I am running a business here.”

Heath felt mild irritation. “My good woman—am I not a client of fine standing?”

“Of course, but—”

“Do I not have the right to choose a lady of my fancy? Moreover, haven’t I already paid an exorbitant sum for Tempeste’s exclusivity?”

“Yes—dear me—yes,” she muttered, using the knotted handkerchief to swab beads of sweat from her wrinkled brow. “I have no issue with you or your capital. But you see, Mr. Kingsbury—you will soon be leaving Charleston, whereas I must remain and continue running this business.”

Confusion swept over Heath. “Just what does that have to do with me?”

The widow quit pacing and faced him. “My business, you must understand, exists only through favorable word of mouth. Any unflattering remark to the contrary brings me one step closer to closing my doors forever—and one step closer to poverty.”

Heath gulped his brandy and managed to suppress a chuckle. As the woman wrung the kerchief tighter in her trembling hands, the jewels adorning her fingers winked; the emerald pendant hanging from her neck on a gold chain, as well as a matching bracelet, did likewise. Heath assumed just one of the many knickknacks in this opulent parlor could feed an entire family for a month. Just who was this old biddy trying to fool? he thought. “Heaven forbid, Mrs. Bettencourt,” he said, doing nothing to mask his sarcasm, “that you should do without the barest necessities.”

When her lips compressed into an angry slit Heath expected a flaming retort. But instead, the woman chose to disregard his scurrility and resumed pacing before the mantel. “As I was saying, Mr. Kingsbury—after you return to your native Virginia, you will be blissfully unaware of problems you have caused in your wake. Problems I alone must face.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Heath, barely unable to restrain his mounting wrath.

“It’s Tempeste, you see,” replied the widow, turning to gaze at him. “That dear—silly child. I assume, Mr. Kingsbury, you can comprehend how a business such as mine is operated—like most others, it is simply a matter of supply and demand. All my girls have been schooled in that basic lesson.” Her gaze hardened and pinned him. “But sometimes, especially when a silver-tongued and dashing gentleman captivates them during a night, mayhap a week, engaging them in convoluted fantasy, my employees have a tendency to forfeit their responsibilities on nothing more than a whim. When fancy living turns a girl’s head, the business, as a whole, begins to suffer. And Tempeste, though darling in many ways, is no exception. She knows all too well what can happen if certain—clients—are abandoned in favor of another.”

Then suddenly, it all became clear. Heath drained the brandy from his glass as his anger flared. “Might you be referring to Tempeste’s Sunday gentleman who prefers fists to kisses? The scoundrel who bribes you to turn a blind eye to her bruises?”

The woman tsked. “My vast experience in this business has taught me many a valuable lesson, Mr. Kingsbury. But the lesson with the utmost importance is this—always refrain from judgment on how clients choose to—pleasure themselves. After all, one must do what one must do to survive in this highly competitive world.”

“You, Mrs. Bettencourt, are nothing more than a moneygrubbing shrew!”

The dowager’s jaw plummeted. Her eyes skewered him with their sharpness. “How dare you question my motives—”

“How dare you allow your—What did you call Tempeste? Your treasure? Your prize?—to be placed in the company of such a savage rapscallion? Just so you can keep yourself in gaudy baubles and Napoleon brandy? You, old woman, should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Nevertheless,” said Daphne Bettencourt with only a hint of blush in her cheeks, “my Charlestonian clientele must find satisfaction, or else they will take their business elsewhere. I am concerned for one thing and one thing only, Mr. Kingsbury—the needs of my local clients. Make no mistake—I give not a whit for your randiness. I have plenty of other girls to satiate your cravings. Therefore, I can not—I will not—have an insolent upstart from the Old Dominion monopolize the time of my fairest maiden for much longer. She is in great demand.” The woman stepped toward Heath and lifted her chin haughtily. “And I demand you return the girl to me no later than Saturday evening!”

Heath could have slapped the prune-faced bitch without so much as a smidgen of guilt. Instead, he hurled his empty brandy snifter into the fireplace; a flurry of twinkling shards rained down on the hearthrug. The woman didn’t even flinch at his outburst. Her motivation now laid bare, Heath adopted another tactic—one he was all too certain would succeed. “How much?”

“What?”

“What will it take to free Tempeste from the fists of her Sunday gentleman?”

The woman’s eyes flashed, showing Heath his instinct had been correct. “My, you are asking a lot. After all, he is an important and influential gentleman. A local. One false word from him to his compatriots and I’m ruined—”

“How much?”

“Be wary, poor boy—obsession can become a brutal monster. Yet, I do sympathize—I have heard Tempeste’s talents have the power to drive young men wild. In truth, I have seen gentlemen a bit long in the tooth also succumb to her forte for passion. But to request sole rights to her feminine gifts is quite another story.” The dowager baited him, tortured him with a triumphant snicker. “As I said, I have local clientele to consider—”

“How much, damn you?” Heath yanked a sheaf of crisp greenbacks from his pocket. For an instant, he imagined drool forming on the madam’s lips as she contemplated. “Two hundred? Three? Name the price for this extortion, old woman!”

“Four—no—five hundred should help me soothe the troubled waters this coming Sunday.”

Heath counted out the bills and thrust them into her heavily veined hands, then turned to leave.

“Also,” she said behind him, “there is the question of what to tell this gentleman when he pays his Sunday call and expects to find his chosen companion.” The dowager came to stand beside Heath. Her plump face wrenched in a frown, as if recalling an unspeakable horror. “Last week’s confrontation with him turned quite—oh my—quite stormy.” Then, the makings of a cunning smile played on her lips. “Or perhaps I should say—tempestuous? Dear me—it took every last ounce of willpower I had to keep from disclosing Tempeste’s whereabouts—not to mention keeping the name of the gentleman who had infringed upon his time a secret.”

Heath stared at the widow for a long moment, allowing his utter hatred of her to fully develop. She had power over him—over Tempeste’s fate—and he detested her for it. In fact, he detested himself even more. How could he have allowed this woman to get the better of him? Just weeks ago, his impending marriage to Asia Spears, the Kingsbury Mills, even his business with the slave ship that might one day lead to a promotion and his father’s love, had consumed his every waking moment. When had his attachment to the beautiful courtesan eclipsed all other thoughts? Little did he expect, or desire, another complication in his life. He should have been more aware of his feelings for Tempeste before they developed into—

Into what? Love? Did he love Tempeste? Or did he just love the idea that somehow he was playing the hero to a damsel in need? The Widow Bettencourt had called it “obsession.” And—Damn it!—she might be right. Shrewd. Very shrewd.

But along with his hatred for the widow grew a grudging respect, for he did understand her. All too well. After all, he shared her love for money. He supposed he could even understand why she resorted to nothing short of blackmail. He just didn’t like being on the receiving end of her extortion. And one day—one day soon—he would make the withered old hellcat pay for this moment. He wasn’t at all certain how he would enact his revenge, he just knew he would.

Finally, Heath counted out an additional five-hundred dollars and held the money toward the greedy woman. When her gaze leapt from his face to his hand, then back again, over and over, Heath could almost see dollar signs dancing behind her eager eyes. As she went to take the cash, he snapped back his hand. “Not so fast. Do we have an understanding, old woman? Not a word to this man about Tempeste’s whereabouts.”

Daphne Bettencourt nodded her head once. After presenting him with a queenly curtsy, she plucked the money from his fist and shoved it up her sleeve. “You, Mr. Kingsbury, have my word as a lady.”

“If you are anything, Mrs. Bettencourt,” he said and stomped to the parlor door, “it is anything but a lady.”

Even now, as Heath enjoyed the sensations Tempeste provided, the memory of the widow’s answering twitter of superiority hectored him. He wondered how he could ever send Tempeste back to that avaricious woman. Or into the arms of the man who abused her. But he couldn’t think of that now—the crush of Tempeste’s breasts against his back and her roaming hands roused his passions. He turned to the woman for whom he had paid a thousand dollars and kissed her hard on the lips. Yes, he thought, her sweet kisses were well worth the price—

And his revenge against Daphne Bettencourt would come in good time.

he Charleston Hotel, just one block north of Institute Hall on Meeting Street, was a brick building of immense proportions. The four-story structure, stretching an entire city block, stood proudly with its massive Doric columns, arched doors and windows, and wide porches laid with green and yellow marble squares. But as Heath handed Tempeste down from the coach and led her past the potted greenery into the well-appointed lobby, his mind was wholly consumed with her beauty.

He had bought for her a dazzling gown of yellow silk faille, garlanded in rose-point lace. After a few nips and tucks from a local seamstress, the gown fit Tempeste to perfection. The glimpse of cleavage and tight waistline, though advertising her slender figure, remained respectable and tasteful. Fingerless lace mitts, a pearl necklace and eardrops, also purchased on their afternoon shopping spree, provided an additional touch of elegance to her resplendent attire. He strutted beside her, pleased that many a gentleman turned his head to take in the full extent of her loveliness, and felt like a king.

Half-way to the dining room, Tempeste stopped before one of the lobby’s full-length mirrors. “How do I look?” she whispered nervously, and scanned her regalia. She adjusted the brim of her Leghorn hat with its gracefully floating yellow plume, tipping it at a jaunty angle.

He touched her hand and chuckled. For the last hour, after she exited the bedroom at the Mills House Hotel and modeled herself before him in the parlor, she had asked that same question countless times. “Like a dream,” he answered yet again. “I still don’t understand why you’re as jumpy as a grasshopper. We’ll dance. We’ll feast.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “And afterward we’ll return to the suite and make love through the evening.”

She squeezed his hand and flashed a warm smile. But a frown replaced the smile as she gazed toward the dining room. “I don’t know why I’m all at sixes and sevens. I just can’t shake the feeling that…”

Knowing her fear, he brought his face close to hers. “Remember what I said—this man is new to Charleston,” he reassured her for what must have been the hundredth time since the previous morning. “Come—let’s enjoy ourselves.” He gave her a peck on the cheek, not caring whether his improper public show of affection would cause tongues to wag.

Though her lips curved in a grin, Heath could clearly view the turmoil in her hazel eyes. She drew a deep breath, cast a final glance into the mirror, then curled her arm through his. But as he escorted her to the dining room, he felt her persistent quivering.

Crystal and gilt chandeliers lit the patrons in a blaze of gaslight, while waiters zigzagged around tables with brimming trays of delicacies. A string orchestra fought to be heard over the clink of silverware, a flurry of dinner orders, and the bedlam of palaver and mirth. Mouth-watering aromas of poached salmon, rack of mutton with vinegar sauce, and roast pheasant with truffles assailed Heath’s nostrils and sent his stomach to gurgling. In silence, Heath and his companion positioned themselves behind several large parties awaiting tables. He stood on tiptoe and peered over shoulders and bonnets, but could see no sign of their host.

His brow creased. In a way, he shared Tempeste’s reservations, and for her sake, he would have gladly returned to their suite were their host anyone but the mysterious Grayson Young. But since his meeting with the syndicate, a puzzling wariness regarding the man had invaded his thoughts. And, without Branchfield or Steele, the night lent some promise. Heath couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Young would disclose something—anything—about himself. Then Heath might finally be able to get a good night’s sleep and put his own fears to rest.

Eventually, they advanced to the head of the line and waited for the maître d’hô;tel. Heath stepped forward and made another search of the room. This time, he spotted Grayson Young’s profile—the bushy mustache, fan beard, and red-brown curls. The husky man was sitting at a table in the far corner, sipping red wine and studying a menu through steel-rimmed spectacles. From this distance, their host gave the appearance of a middle-age gentleman, but Heath still recalled the wrinkle-free face, the fiery vigor in the dark eyes, the strong handshake—paradoxical quirks that somehow made Heath uneasy. And now that pesky chill raced up Heath’s spine again.

“Do you see him, Heath?” asked Tempeste behind him.

He turned and nodded.

“Where?” she asked, her beautiful face alight with heedful interest.

Before he could respond, the balding maître d’hôtel appeared at his side. “Yes, sir? How many to dine?”

Heath pointed across the room. “I believe Mr. Young is expecting us.”

“Yes. Very good sir,” the man said, snatching two menus from a nearby table. “Follow me. Follow me.”

The maître d’hôtel scampered toward Young’s table with harried grace. Tempeste took Heath’s arm and stepped with him into the dining room. Heath fell into deep thought. He mentally prepared his list of questions that might elicit solid answers from the evasive man. As each step brought them closer to Young’s table—and he could just distinguish the man’s smooth forehead masked in the aura of maturity—he decided he would not allow this night to end until his curiosity was satiated. After all, how could he relay to the other syndicate members his suspicions of Young based on nothing more than gut instinct? He needed proof or else he would look the fool. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—allow that to happen. He had to gain his father’s respect and cement his position in Kingsbury Mills.

When Tempeste slowed her pace, Heath, so wrapped up in his ruminations, barely noticed. But when she stopped dead in her tracks and seized his arm with painful and unnatural force, Heath grew alarmed and spun to face her.

Terror filled her eyes as she stared over his shoulder. The color in her cheeks abandoned her and she looked about ready to swoon. Heath pried her fingers from his arm and took her hands; they trembled.

“What?” he asked.

She seemed to shrink before him, using his frame as a shield. Her mouth opened wide; nothing escaped but a gasp.

“What is it?” he said louder. Then, suddenly aware that patrons at surrounding tables had ceased conversation to stare at them, he lowered his voice. “Tell me.”

Tempeste began backing away, yanking him along and shaking her head.

“Tell me what’s wrong?”

All at once, she wheeled around and sped toward the door. In her manic haste to escape the dining room, the whalebone cage of her hoop skirt collided with the legs of a passing waiter. The man, carrying a dessert tray, tottered backward. Shrieks of warning rent the air as plum pudding, charlotte russe, and profiteroles rained down on several tables.

Stunned, shocked into silence, Heath glanced over his shoulder. Young looked up from his menu to the maître d’hôtel, who was just now nearing the table. Both men seemed oblivious to the pandemonium Tempeste had created near the door.

Before Young could see him, Heath raced from the room and into the lobby, disregarding the curses and tears from the bespattered diners he left behind. He spotted Tempeste, still running through the crowded hotel, bumping people and causing heads to turn as she made her way to the hotel’s main entrance.

“Tempe!” he called.

She ignored his cry and fled the hotel, losing her hat in the process. After snatching up her headpiece, he made a mad dash to the door. He burst into the open air, his boot heels pounding the marble-tiled porch. A salty breeze dried the perspiration from his brow. The sun, sinking low in the heavens, cast the clouds in a ghastly red hue.

Then he saw her at the far end of the porch, leaning against one of the columns, sobbing and mumbling nonsensical words. He rocketed to her side and snatched her arm. She yelped and tried to run, but he gripped her tight and turned her around to face him.

Her tear-streaked face, contorted in anguish, tore at his heart. “Please, Tempe. What happened in there? Tell me. What’s wrong?”

She flung her arms around him, cowering against his chest. Her whole body quaked. “Him—man—Dear God—no—I can’t—I can’t—not him—”

“Tempeste—please—come back inside and—”

“No!”

She wrenched out of his arms and scuttled to the street. Heath shouldered his way through the milling crowd of onlookers. He caught up with her just as she scrabbled into an enclosed carriage for hire. “The Mills House Hotel,” he shouted to the teamster before jumping into the vehicle and securing the door behind him.

Tempeste fell into his outstretched arms as the driver set the team in motion. The grind of moving wheels mingled with her uncontrollable sobs. Her trembling continued until long after the Charleston Hotel was out of sight. Heath stared out the window, gasped for air, and tried to make sense of what had occurred. But he had a fairly good idea—she had spotted someone she knew. Someone who knew what she did for a living. Her worst fear had come to pass after all. And he felt a stab of guilt.

By the time the Mills House loomed before them, Tempeste’s tears had somewhat abated. Heath helped her from the carriage, paid the driver, then whisked her up to his suite. After pouring her a brandy from the well-stocked cellaret, he sat beside her on the parlor sofa and draped his arm around her.

“Now,” he began. “Tell me. Did you see someone you knew?”

She nodded.

“One of the dining room patrons?”

Another nod, more vigorous.

“Was it—” He paused. He hated having to ask the next question, for it ignited his jealousy. “Was it—a—client?”

She leaned into his shoulder, placing her hand against his chest. “My—my Sunday gentleman.”

“What?” Heath leapt off the sofa. His hands fisted as his anger flared. “You mean that son of a bitch was there tonight? You’re certain it was him?”

“Trust me, Heath. When a man raises his hand to you and uses you for depraved—” Her eyes misted. “Well—believe me, you never forget his face.”

“Dear God, I wish I’d known.” He slammed his fist into the open palm of his other hand. “Which one was he? Which one, damn it?”

She tugged off her fingerless mitts and twisted the delicate lace. “I want to forget his face. Oh, how I want to forget. Please don’t make me describe him—”

“I’m sorry, but I must insist.” Heath crouched before her, resting on his haunches. He took her shaky hands and tried to suppress his fury, for he sensed it would only cause her more anguish. He forced his voice to remain steady. “Now tell me. Which man was he?”

“I don’t know if you saw him,” she said, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “He was in the corner. Sitting alone. Well-dressed. Red-brown hair. Facial whiskers, and—” Fresh sobs chopped off her words.

Heath tensed. “Wearing spectacles?”

Her sobbing ceased. She blinked at him. “Y—yes. Then—then you did see him?”

“Dammit!” Heath snapped to his feet and kicked the leg of a chair. His chest heaved in frantic breaths as he swelled with wrath. “That’s the scoundrel? I—I don’t believe it.”

Confusion crossed her face. “You know him?”

“Know him? He was our host! That’s Mr. Young, my business associate.”

She shook her head. “No, Heath, no. Then you’re referring to someone else. Perhaps in another corner of the room.”

“But you described him to a T. All except for that—oddness—I mean—” He fiddled with his mustache and plopped down on the sofa beside her. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“What did you mean just then? Oddness?” Tempeste cocked an eyebrow. “Voice your thought.”

“It’s just that Mr. Young is—oh, I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just that he comes off like a man—well—a bit long in the tooth—yet, when you get up close, he seems somehow—”

“Younger?”

The chill along Heath’s spine returned. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s why it took me so long to recognize him.” Her brow furrowed. “He seemed much older than the last time I saw him. The spectacles threw me, at first, because he doesn’t wear any. And his whiskers are a bit longer—bushier. Almost as if he was trying to disguise himself. But Heath—his name’s not Young. My Sunday gentleman’s name is Garrick Trent Yardley.”

“Grayson Young—Garrick Yardley?” Heath’s mind reeled. What the hell was going on here? “Tempe—tell me everything. If we’re talking about the same man, why would he lie about his name?”

“I’m sure I don’t know—but he’s been away on business for several weeks. He was due home last weekend. That’s why I was so thankful to you for keeping me otherwise engaged.” As she broke into renewed weeping, Heath pulled her against him and forced himself to concentrate.

He recalled Young’s foul mood when the man arrived that Monday morning at the syndicate meeting. What had Young said to Branchfield?—Something about a sleepless night, and that it amazed him how so much could change over the course of so few weeks? And just the other day, Mrs. Bettencourt had made it quite clear that when Tempeste’s gentleman arrived on Sunday for his weekly visit, he had been outraged that someone else was occupying her time.

Was Young making reference to Tempeste that morning? Young—like Yardley—had been away for weeks on business. Checking the slave trade in New Orleans, perhaps? Dear God—were the two men one and the same? And if so, how could Heath, knowing this man’s abuse of Tempeste, continue doing business with the syndicate and not slay him on the spot?

Needing fresh air and a potent drink, he released Tempeste and scrambled off the sofa. After flinging open a window, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, then began pacing the room while other questions continue to baffle him—

Why would Yardley use a nom de guerre? Or claim he was new to Charleston? Or try to disguise himself? No wonder no one in this town had heard of such a well-to-do gentleman. Nothing made any sense. Nothing.

After finishing off his glass of whiskey, he poured another shot and wolfed it down. Tempeste, still wringing her gloves, watched him as a morose silence hung in the air like a pall. He resumed pacing before the sofa. “Tempe,” he began, as the liquor fired his belly and rushed to his head, “tell me more about Yardley.”

“Other than his brutality,” she said with a sneer, “I don’t know much.”

“He’s not new to Charleston. That’s clear. But do you know where he lives? Where he comes from?”

“I assume he’s been here for at least three months. That’s when he began visiting Mrs. Bettencourt’s house. Where he resides permanently I do not know—nor care. He rents a secluded beach-front cottage on Sullivan’s Island for our—our Sunday—appointments.” Her pained expression acted as a blade to Heath’s soul. “But I do know he originally hails from Columbia.”

“The state capital? Is his family in farming? Textiles? What?”

She rose from the sofa and snatched his arm. “Yardley? Doesn’t the name mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“Maybe not. But around here, most people know of his father—the powerful Jasper Trent Yardley?”

“The name means nothing to me.”

“Heath,” she said, licking her lips, “you said Mr. Young—or Yardley—was a business associate?” She waited for him to nod. “You’ve never told me and I promised myself I wouldn’t pry, but now I need to know, so please forgive me.” A troubled look fleeted across her face. “What business brings you to Charleston?”

“Why do you need to ask that?”

“Because Garrick works for his father, and I can’t imagine how you and he have crossed paths. You’ve told me what your family does, and it has nothing to do with his business. Unless it’s something—well—”

“Go on.”

“Illegal.”

Heath felt the blood drain from his face. His throat knotted as he stammered for a response.

Tempeste placed her hand over his mouth, then kissed his cheek affectionately. “Don’t tell me specifics—that’s not what I intended. But if you are involved in anything—well—you know—then please be warned. You see, Jasper Trent Yardley works for the government in Columbia. Garrick is his assistant.” Tempeste shook her head in disbelief and gave a sad chuckle. “Isn’t it rich?”

“What?” asked Heath, his limbs suddenly numb.

“That a man who works on the side of the law can spend his Sundays—the Lord’s day—doing to me what only a monster would do.”

“What is his exact profession, Tempe?”

“From the crumbs of information I’ve gathered during our—pillow talk—I know Garrick’s work has something to do with investigating illegal—trading practices.”

Heath dropped into a chair as his legs gave way. The empty whiskey glass fell from his hand and thumped the carpet. His stomach lurched, while the need to vomit overwhelmed him.

Tempeste hunkered down beside him. “Heath? Are you all right? You look ill?” When he didn’t answer, she kissed his forehead and fondled his hair.

Heath buried his head in his hands. His palms ground against his eye sockets until colors burst in the darkness behind the lids. A cold, clammy sweat broke out all over his body, while a bout of panic rippled through him.

He felt like a greenhorn—and knowing Branchfield and Steele, both experienced businessmen, had also fallen victim to Yardley’s ruse, did nothing to ease Heath’s feelings of foolishness. For days, he had tried to unlock the secrets of the puzzling Grayson Young. For days, he had replayed their lone meeting in his head until the memories became an eddy of utter confusion. But now the memories jelled—all the puzzle pieces fit together—and the picture they formed potentiated his rage. Edmund Steele had said their former partners in the syndicate were weak—fearful of the government. The former member who had recommended Yardley into their circle must have sold them out.

And now, along with the others, he would certainly face a prison sentence. Or the executioner. Or, if he managed to escape the hands of the law, then his father would certainly kill him.

An onslaught of hatred for Garrick Yardley—unsheathed, savage, keen—pounded Heath’s temples and jangled his nerves. He had to think—and fast—for the Fairchild would reach port any day now.

But, the solution came to him instantly. Deep inside, he knew Garrick Yardley’s involvement in the syndicate, plus the brute’s mistreatment of Tempeste, left him only one alternative. And though he was no stranger to the nature of the deed, in one very important way, the current situation gave way to conflicting emotions. Therefore, he could not act on impulse. He had to weigh his choices carefully, consider the many consequences, and plot the surest method to save himself from absolute destruction. But he needed courage, the mental strength to face the difficult undertaking—perhaps the hardest undertaking in his life—

The murder of a white man.