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J
ustin was probably the only man in all of Monaco who dreaded crossing the threshold of the famed Casino Monte Carlo. He’d done so enough that the opulence had no effect. The reliefs didn’t turn his head, the paintings didn’t draw his eye, and the crystal chandeliers were nothing but light for his feet.

He could be thankful they had made their home here in Monte Carlo, because of Brook. But still he wished his father would find a different life.

Perhaps if he lost more, he would. But no, Father had made a fortune at the tables over the years. It was hard to convince a successful gambler to turn over a new leaf when he could turn up a new card instead.

Justin paused at the doorway of the baccarat room. Yes, there he was. A debonair smile upon his face, an impeccable suit on his lean figure, a pretty girl beside him.

Drawing in a long breath, Justin closed his eyes for a moment. Prayed, for the millionth time that day alone, for the strength to have the needed conversation. Again. Prayed that this time Father would hear him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw his father toss back the
contents of his snifter—cognac, no doubt—and stand. He wobbled a bit as he straightened his jacket, but he was smiling.
Blast.
It may have been easier to convince him to return to England had he been fresh from a loss rather than a win.

Father’s smile grew when he spotted Justin, and he shook off the woman who had tried to tuck her hand into his arm. “There you are, Justin. Have you been out enjoying your birthday gift? Your Brook saw it the other week when it arrived and assured me it would suit you.”

How could he help but grin? Not just at the thought of his new Rolls-Royce, but at the man who had given it. Father had his faults—and twice the charm to offset them. “It is a magnificent car. Thank you.”

“Good, good.” When near enough, his father clapped a hand to Justin’s shoulder and steered him toward one of the washrooms. “I considered one designed by that Bugatti chap but knew you would appreciate the English touch.”

“Indeed.” And it was as good an opening as any. “Speaking of things English—”

“Save your breath, my son. I’m not going back.”

A footman bowed as he opened the washroom door for them. “Good evening, Lord William.”

“Pierre.”

While Father moved to the mirror, Justin sighed and sat on a plush chair. “Your refusal to come home doesn’t change facts. Uncle Edward has been dead for twelve years—you are not Lord William anymore. You are the Marquess of Abingdon, the heir, and will be the next Duke of Stafford.”

“And facts don’t change reality.” Father undid his tie and started the knot afresh. “I have no interest in the duchy. When the old man kicks off, the title may come to me by law, but you’ll manage the estate perfectly well without my help.”

Justin passed a hand over his hair—what had he done with his
hat? He must have left it at the palace when he called on Prince Albert earlier. “He wants to see you. He isn’t well, Father—it’s time to make your peace.”

Father’s reflected eyes met his in the mirror. One more tug on the tie and it was in a perfect bow. He turned, faced Justin. “There is no peace to be made.”

“But if you only—”

“Don’t ask it.” Father sighed, and his face softened. “It’s for the best. You will make the better duke, be the better overseer of the estate. If I tried to put my hand to it, I would foul it up.”

Justin stood again. “Nonsense. If you hadn’t an innate sense of how to manage things, you wouldn’t do so well here.” Though he had to admit he was glad he took after his uncle Edward—and not so glad his cousin, Cayton, his father’s sister’s son, seemed to take after Father.

Chuckling, the marquess headed toward the casino floor once again, then shifted tack and made for the front doors. “Knowing when to fold a hand and when to bet is a far cry from dealing with tenants and whatnot. As you ought to know, being excellent at the latter but an absolute dunce at cards.”

One corner of Justin’s mouth tugged up, even as he fought down the desire to claim he
could
be good, if he tried. An experiment he had sworn to himself he would never perform. “Call it lack of interest.”

Though his smile remained bright, a shadow flitted through Father’s eyes. “I suppose I ought to be glad I scared you onto the straight and narrow. But there are worse lives than the one I have chosen. You ought to toss responsibility to the wind and indulge yourself for once. Set up your singer’s daughter as your mistress and—”

“Oh, for—I will not make a mistress of Brook. Or anyone else.” And why must they have this conversation? In public, no less?

Another footman opened the main doors and handed Father’s hat to him—obviously the employees knew the man’s comings and goings far better than Justin did. With a shake of his head, he stepped out into the warmth of the evening. The sun was setting behind the mountains to the west, dusting the city with gold.

Mischief had entered Father’s eyes again. “Why must you always be so pious? I’ve seen how you’ve begun looking at her, and it’s no wonder—she’s grown into a beautiful young thing. But you can’t wed her—one so set on doing right by his ducal grandfather would never disgrace the family name by marrying a performer’s daughter.”

Justin tried clenching his jaw to keep from rising to Father’s bait. But he couldn’t stop himself. “She is more than that. Though—”

“Well, she is no princess. She looks no more like Prince Louis than she did her mother.”

He followed when Father turned to the right. “Collette wasn’t her mother. Brook is English. A baroness, as it happens.”

That brought Father’s feet to a halt and his brows up. “Really. Well then, I suppose you
can
wed her. Do it here, will you, before you leave again? I don’t fancy having to travel through the dratted English rain for your wedding.”

There was no reasoning with him. Why did he try? Justin shook his head as they started forward again. “Who said anything about marrying her?”

“Well, you can’t make a mistress of her—she’s a baroness.”

A snort of laughter slipped out. “Where are you going? Shall we have a meal together?”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid, though I wish you had made it home for your birthday—I had a regular gala planned out.” Father tipped his hat to a couple strolling toward the casino. “Five and twenty now. Your grandfather must be hounding you
to marry soon and be about the business of heirs, chanting nonsense about duty.”

“Mm.” Regardless of his denial a moment ago, only one face ever came to mind when he considered a wife—but she never looked at him as anything but an old friend. Besides, Brook would have many changes to work through in the near future. “But he knows I have my hands full with learning the estates. And I will have to see Brook settled with the Earl of Whitby besides.”

“Here we are.” Father halted before a gleaming roadster and rested his hand on the bonnet—apparently he had bought a car by “that Bugatti chap” after all. “The Earl of Whitby, you say?”

Justin couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the artistry of the lines. “Indeed. Do you know him?”

“I used to.” Father’s voice went musing. “I heard he got rather eccentric after the death of his wife and the disappearance of his . . . Wait. Your Brook is his missing daughter? How the devil did she end up with Collette Sabatini, and here of all places?”

“Collette was in Yorkshire at the time. She came upon the carriage accident. Though why she brought her here is a mystery.” Justin frowned when Father got into the car. “Surely you don’t mean to drive when you’ve been drinking. A car isn’t a horse—it can’t find its own way when you keel over in a stupor.”

Yet he tossed his hat to the seat and put on goggles and a cap. “You are my son, Justin, not my nursemaid. I am fine—and going to France to keep a dinner engagement. Your bed ought to be made up in the flat, and Fitzroy knows not to expect me.”

“Father—”

“I will be home by luncheon tomorrow.” He flashed a smile, all gleaming white teeth and charming irresponsibility. “Go and find yourself some trouble—it’ll do you a world of good.”

Once more Justin had to shake his head. “One of these days
we’re going to finish a conversation without you riding off on some new lark.”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose.” The engine sprang to life with a roar and a rattle, and Father gave him a jaunty wave before backing out into the street without even looking behind him.

Justin pressed a hand to his temple. He ought to go fetch his hat . . . after he walked off his hope and frustration.

Grand-père found her on the ramparts. Brook’s muscles were still warm and fluid from her ballet lesson, making her feel that if she stretched high enough, she could touch the clouds scuttling over the sky, or reach out and skim her hands through the warm waters. She grinned at him, but the prince’s returning smile was small and tight. In his hands he clutched a worn leather book.

Her chest went tight, her relaxation vanished. Her fingers pressed into the warm white stone. “You’ve spoken to Justin.”

“Before he found you.” Grand-père didn’t stop until he had pulled her tight to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. He smelled of security—ink and paper and a whiff of cologne. “I asked you to let it drop,
ma fifille
. To be content here, with me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut against the familiar worsted wool of his favorite jacket. “Grand-père . . . if it were only us, I would. You know that. I love you more than anyone else in the world. But with the people rioting—”

“That had nothing to do with you. They want a constitution—that’s all.”

It wasn’t all. They all knew it wasn’t all. She held him tighter. “Prince Louis was right all along. I’m not his. Charlotte clearly is—she is where your hope lies. Adopt her to keep the Grimaldi line going. Get to know her. Love her.”

Brook had never even met Charlotte—the illegitimate daugh
ter with another performer, the daughter Prince Louis actually claimed as his own. But for a few years after the girl’s birth—before Collette’s deathbed confession—Brook had believed the child was her half sister.

“You should never have taken me in after Maman—”

“Hush.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “You are my
petite-fille
. Whatever your blood, that will not change. And I wish you would stay.”

“Grand-père—”

“
Je sais
. I know you will go, you are too headstrong to listen to your old grandfather when you have made up your mind.” He pulled away, revealing a sad, proud smile. Touching a finger under her chin with one hand, he held up the book in his other. “You should have this, then. I promised Collette I would destroy it so you would never find it, but I couldn’t. I think I always knew you would not be happy here forever—not when there were questions out there in need of answers. It is her journal.”

Brook’s brows knit. “Whose? Maman’s or . . . or my real mother’s?”

“Collette’s.” Though he pressed the journal to her hands, he held it still, held it shut. “Whatever answers it has, she thought they would hurt you. There must be a reason for that. Don’t open this until you’re ready to know what that reason is.”

Mutely, she nodded. Her fingers registered the worn leather, tried to feel what secrets might lie within. Part of her wanted to open it immediately, heedless of the warning, and learn what truth she could. But then she glanced up into Grand-père’s troubled dark eyes and lowered the book to her side. She couldn’t hurt him like that. It would be tantamount to shouting that all he’d given her, all he’d given up for her, meant nothing. “I will wait, Grand-père.”

Relief softened his eyes, and he nodded. “Come inside,
ma fifille
. Dress for dinner and then play for me. Let me hear you sing again before you leave me.”

Tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow, Brook let him lead her from the ramparts. Secrets could wait.

An hour turned to two. Justin let the warm breeze soothe him, let the mixed scents of sweet and spice remind him of a childhood spent racing through these very streets. He had found trouble aplenty, adventure and happiness too. And Brook. He had found Brook on one of those unsupervised sprees. She had been but a sprite of a girl then, only five to his twelve, but the mischief in her eyes had intrigued him.