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Of course he knew his mind.

He knew that with every day spent in her company, his admiration would only grow. She was bold, brilliant, and brave. He valued her above all others he had ever met. Even Lady Smiling, his own radiant mother, could not compare to Audrey’s singular fire.

It was as though the gods themselves had fashioned a woman of perfect mettle and handed her to him—to him!—and he had insulted her, wounded her, offended her, the one creature who could challenge him to be better. Not by chaining him down, but by tempering him into more thoughtful action.

Brendan was right.

I am a fool.

Audrey was the most nervous she had ever been as she stepped into the earl’s study. Perhaps if she had not kissed Julius, or slept in his arms, she would have felt more confident facing Lord Stirling. She might have borne the moment with the dignity of someone who had done no wrong.

But she had. And they shared far too much time alone than was acceptable for a young lady.

Which meant she was now mortified to speak with the father of the man she loved about the terrible cloud of scandal she had brought upon the Stirling household.

Lord Stirling stood by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, staring into the hearth. Audrey hovered in the doorway, uncertain whether she should speak, waiting in nervous anticipation for him to turn.

When he did not, she gathered her courage.

“Lord Stirling?”

He glanced over his shoulder, not quite meeting her eyes, then returned his gaze to the hearth. “I am afraid I have let you down, Miss Gideon.”

Audrey frowned, confused. “I am afraid it is I who have let you down, my lord.”

His shoulders tensed. He sighed, then turned at last to face her. Still, he avoided meeting her gaze, gesturing for her to sit in one of the plump navy blue armchairs facing the fire.

Audrey hesitated, then crossed the room and perched on the edge of the seat. The earl sank into the other chair, his fingers adjusting the lapels of his coat with an air of distraction, as though brushing away invisible lint … or shame.

“Your father entrusted me with your welfare,” he said quietly. “And I believed myself up to the task. I never considered that my son would …” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “Lord Trafford has never entangled himself in such a matter. Had I suspected otherwise, I would have kept you apart.”

Audrey swallowed. It seemed the earl had not yet spoken with Julius and was unaware of the particulars.

“Jul—” She stopped short, stricken at the slip of his Christian name.

The earl tensed, his expression sharpening.

Audrey blew out a breath, dismayed. “Lord Trafford has not informed you of the circumstances?”

“He has not. Julius made some cryptic jest about his circulation being compromised. My son is a law unto himself. I fail to understand him at the best of times.”

“I see … um … well …” Audrey’s fingers clutched the edge of the seat. “Lord Trafford was attacked. Right outside. In the street.”

She gestured vaguely toward the front hall.

“When I saw the knife, I acted on instinct. I grabbed one of your swords from the display to frighten the scoundrel off. Jul—Lord Trafford sustained a wound—laceration to the torso—and he was losing a great deal of blood. I was compelled to treat him.”

She drew a breath, struggling to recall the sequence clearly, her nerves fraying.

“He insisted we were in danger, and we fled to Lady Hays’s house so I might … so I might clean and stitch the wound …”

Lord Stirling leapt to his feet with a look of alarm. Given that he was a gentleman in his fifties with a solid build, Audrey had not known he could move so quickly. She supposed he was rather fit, so it ought not to have astonished her, yet still she stared in consternation.

“Are you telling me Julius could have been killed?”

Audrey nibbled her lip and gave a small nod.

“What the blazes is going on?”