Three weeks after Thomas's departure, life at Blackwood Manor settled into something Margaret could only describe as contentment. Edward had taken to reading aloud to her in the evenings—terrible gothic novels that they both mocked mercilessly while secretly enjoying. They'd established a morning routine of taking coffee together before the day's obligations separated them. And the nights, well. The nights continued to be educational.
It was almost suspiciously perfect.
"Something's going to go wrong," Margaret announced over breakfast one morning. "We've been too happy for too long. The universe will correct for it."
Edward looked up from his correspondence. "That's remarkably pessimistic."
"That's remarkably realistic. Name one period in history where sustained happiness didn't end in plague or war or someone's unexpected death."
"You're very cheerful this morning."
"I'm being practical. When the other shoe drops, I want to be prepared."
"The only shoe dropping will be mine, if you keep predicting doom." Edward returned to his letters, then paused. "Though speaking of doom, there's something you should see."
He passed her a letter. Margaret recognized the seal—her father's solicitor.
Her stomach dropped. "Papa?"
"No, nothing like that. Read it."
She scanned the contents, her frown deepening with each line. "They want to what?"
"Invest Edward Blackwood in a joint venture. A new railway line through the Midlands. Very profitable, apparently. Your father thinks it would be an excellent opportunity for us to expand our interests beyond the estate."
"Us. Our interests." Margaret set down the letter. "Papa's trying to involve you in the family business."
"So it seems. The solicitor suggests I come to London next week to discuss terms." Edward's expression was carefully neutral. "What do you think?"
Margaret thought several things. That her father had never offered Edward partnership before, only money. That this represented a fundamental shift in how William Thornton viewed his son-in-law. That it also represented a test—would Edward engage with trade, or would aristocratic pride make him refuse?
"I think you should go," she said finally. "Hear what they're proposing. It might be good for the estate to have diverse income sources."
"You don't think it's beneath me? Getting involved in railways and industry?"
"I think that's exactly the kind of thinking that led your father to bankruptcy." Margaret buttered her toast. "Money is money, Edward. Whether it comes from rents or railways doesn't matter. What matters is securing our future."
"Our future." Edward smiled. "I like how that sounds."
"Don't get sentimental. I'm being mercenary and practical."
"You're being wise. And yes, I'll go to London. Though—" he hesitated. "I'd like you to come with me."
Margaret blinked. "To London? For business meetings?"
"Why not? You understand your father's enterprises better than I do. And frankly, the idea of going back to London without you feels wrong. Like I'd be reverting to my old life."
"You do realize if I come, I'll actually attend the meetings. Not sit decoratively in the corner."
"I'm counting on it. Your father's solicitor terrifies me. I need backup."
"Mr. Winters is seventy years old and has gout."
"Exactly. Terrifying. Ancient and wrathful, like an Old Testament prophet." Edward reached across the table to take her hand. "Come with me. Make it a trip instead of an obligation. We can stay at the hotel where we—" he wagered his eyebrows "—discovered marital harmony."
"That's not what we call it."
"We should. Very tasteful. Much better than 'where we finally shagged properly.'"
"Edward!"
"What? I'm being delicate."
Margaret tried to look disapproving and failed. "Fine. I'll come to London. But only because you need supervision."
"I absolutely do. Left to my own devices, I might agree to invest in something ridiculous. Underwater breathing apparatus or a machine that turns lead into gold."
"Both of which would be more sensible than some of your father's investments."
"Unfair but accurate."
They left for London three days later, and Margaret was surprised to find herself excited. Not for London itself—the city was crowded and dirty and smelled of coal smoke—but for the novelty of traveling with Edward as actual partners rather than resentful strangers.
On the journey, Edward taught her to play vingt-et-un. Margaret won four hands out of five, which Edward claimed was beginner's luck and Margaret knew was mathematical probability. They argued about it cheerfully for two hours.
"You're counting cards," Edward accused.
"I'm paying attention. That's not the same thing."
"It's absolutely the same thing."
"If you paid attention instead of making ridiculous bets, you'd win more."
"I make ridiculous bets because playing conservatively is boring."
"Playing conservatively is called strategy."
"Playing conservatively is called being tedious." Edward gathered the cards, shuffling them. "Fine. New game. Higher stakes."
"What stakes?"
"Winner chooses what we do tonight. In our hotel room." His expression turned wicked. "All night."
Margaret felt heat creep up her neck. "That's highly inappropriate."
"That's highly motivating. Suddenly I'm very interested in paying attention."
He still lost. Margaret chose to be smug about it.
The hotel was exactly as Margaret remembered—elegant, discreet, with staff who knew better than to comment on the fact that Lord and Lady Blackwood had stayed there before without being married. Their suite overlooked Hyde Park, and Margaret stood at the window watching carriages roll past while Edward unpacked.
"Strange being back here," he said, coming to stand behind her. His arms wrapped around her waist. "Last time we were terrified and uncertain and had no idea what we were doing."
"As opposed to now, when we're moderately concerned and slightly less uncertain?"
"Progress." He kissed her neck. "Though I'm significantly more certain about some things now."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that you're wearing too many clothes."
"Edward, it's three in the afternoon."
"Your point being?"
"We have dinner with Papa's solicitor at seven. We should be preparing."
"We have four hours. Plenty of time." His hands began working on her buttons. "Besides, you won the bet. You get to choose what we do tonight. I'm simply offering suggestions for this afternoon."
"Suggestions involving significantly fewer clothes?"
"All my best suggestions involve fewer clothes."
Margaret turned in his arms, reaching up to loosen his cravat. "I suppose we do have time for a brief rest. The journey was quite exhausting."
"Extremely exhausting. Very strenuous, sitting in a carriage."
"We should conserve our energy for tonight."
"Absolutely. By expending it this afternoon. Perfectly logical."
They made it to the bed eventually, though several articles of clothing were lost along the way. Edward was leisurely in his attentions, and Margaret was just contemplating whether they'd actually make it to dinner when a knock at the door interrupted.
"Ignore it," Edward murmured against her throat.
"What if it's important?"
"Nothing is more important than this."
The knocking persisted. Edward cursed creatively and extracted himself, pulling on trousers and answering the door with clear annoyance.
"What?"
A hotel porter stood there, looking apologetic. "Terribly sorry, my lord, but there's a gentleman downstairs who insists he must speak with you. Says it's urgent. A Mr. Robert Thornton?"
Margaret sat up, pulling the sheet around herself. "Robert? My cousin Robert?"
"You have a cousin Robert?" Edward asked.
"Papa's nephew. I haven't seen him in years. He went to America to make his fortune." Margaret's mind raced. Robert appearing unannounced, claiming urgency. "Send him up. Give us five minutes to make ourselves presentable."
After the porter left, they dressed hastily. Edward was still buttoning his waistcoat when another knock came.
Robert Thornton had his uncle's broad build and his mother's fair coloring. He looked travel-worn and agitated, his clothes expensive but rumpled.
"Margaret! Thank God I found you. The hotel said you'd checked in yesterday—" He stopped, seeming to register Edward for the first time. "Lord Blackwood. I'm Robert Thornton. William's nephew."
"So I gather." Edward gestured to chairs. "What's this urgent matter?"
Robert sat heavily, running a hand through his hair. "It's about your father's business proposal. The railway investment."
"What about it?"
"It's a fraud. Not on your father's end—he's genuine. But the consortium he's partnering with, the engineering firm providing the surveys and cost estimates. They're inflating everything. Planning to pocket the difference and disappear once construction begins."
Edward exchanged a look with Margaret. "How do you know this?"
"Because I nearly got caught in the same scheme in New York. Different people, same tactics. I saw the prospectus your father's solicitor circulated—my mother sent it, thinking I might want to invest—and I recognized the patterns immediately. The overly optimistic projections. The vague timeline. The upfront capital requirements." Robert leaned forward. "If your father invests, he'll lose everything. And if Lord Blackwood's name is attached to the venture, his reputation will be destroyed along with the fortune."
Margaret's stomach churned. "Papa doesn't know?"
"I don't think so. He's too trusting. Sees the best in people." Robert's expression was grim. "The fraud is sophisticated. They've forged testimonials from other investors. Created entirely fictional engineering credentials. By the time anyone realizes, they'll be long gone with the money."
"How much is my father planning to invest?"
"According to the prospectus, two hundred thousand pounds. Initial capital to secure the route and begin surveys." Robert met her eyes. "Margaret, that's a significant portion of his liquid assets. If he loses it—"
"It would devastate him. Not just financially. Papa's reputation is built on shrewd investments. This would make him look like a fool."
Edward was pacing now, his expression dark. "Why come to us? Why not go directly to your uncle?"
"Because he won't listen to me. We had a falling out years ago over my going to America. He thinks I'm reckless and impulsive. If I tell him this is a fraud, he'll think I'm jealous or trying to cause trouble." Robert looked at Margaret. "But he'll listen to you. And he respects Lord Blackwood now. If you both present evidence, he might actually investigate before committing funds."
"What evidence do we have beyond your suspicions?" Edward asked.
"I've done some digging. The lead engineer? Doesn't exist. The company registration is fraudulent. The bank references are forged. I have documentation, but I need help confronting the consortium before they realize I'm onto them." Robert pulled out a folder, spreading papers across the table. "Look. These are the real records. And these are what they provided your father."
Margaret examined the documents, her heart sinking. Robert was right. The discrepancies were obvious once you knew to look for them. But to someone like her father, eager for a new venture, blinded by enthusiasm, they would seem like minor administrative differences.
"We need to tell Papa immediately," she said.
"There's a complication." Robert's expression turned grim. "The consortium is pressuring for a decision. They want the funds transferred by Friday. That's three days from now. If we don't act fast, your father will commit the money before we can stop him."
"Then we act fast." Edward was already moving toward his jacket. "Robert, can you get us into the consortium's offices? I want to see their operation firsthand."
"I can. But we need to be careful. If they realize we're investigating—"
"They'll disappear with whatever money they've already collected." Margaret stood. "Right. So we need a plan. A good one."
Edward looked at her, then at Robert. "I have an idea. But you're both going to hate it."
"Why would we hate it?" Margaret asked.
"Because it involves me pretending to be a gullible aristocrat desperate to invest, while you two play my advisors who are just clever enough to be dangerous but not quite clever enough to see through the con."
Robert blinked. "That's actually brilliant."
"I did say you'd hate it." Edward's smile was sharp. "It requires me to act like an idiot. Very damaging to my dignity."
"Your dignity will recover," Margaret said. "Papa's fortune might not. What do you need us to do?"
They spent the next hour planning. Robert would arrange an introduction to the consortium, claiming Edward as a wealthy associate interested in the railway venture. Margaret would play the dutiful wife, asking just enough questions to seem engaged but not so many as to raise suspicion. They'd gather evidence, identify the key players, and then spring the trap.
It was risky. It required perfect timing. And it meant confronting criminals who'd already proven themselves sophisticated enough to fool experienced businessmen.
"This could go very wrong," Robert said.
"It could," Edward agreed. "But the alternative is watching your uncle lose his fortune and my name attached to a scandal that would destroy any business credibility I'm trying to build." He looked at Margaret. "Are you certain you want to be involved? This could be dangerous."
"Papa's being defrauded. Of course I'm involved." Margaret's voice was steel. "Besides, I've read enough sensation novels. How hard can pretending to be a greedy investor be?"
"Famous last words," Robert muttered.
"Probably," Margaret agreed. "But we're doing it anyway."
Edward took her hand, squeezing once. "Together?"
"Together. Though I'm charging you extra husbandly duty points for this. Fraud investigation was not on my list of approved London activities."
"What was on your list?"
"Shopping. Theater. Scandalous amounts of sex in expensive hotel rooms."
"We can still do the last one."
"After we save Papa's fortune and catch the criminals."
"Fair." Edward pulled her close, kissing her forehead. "For what it's worth, I find your mercenary practicality extremely attractive."
"Keep talking like that and we might actually make this work."
"The fraud investigation or the marriage?"
"Both."
Robert cleared his throat. "If you two are finished being adorable, we should plan our approach. The consortium offices are in Cheapside, and they keep unusual hours. We'll need to—"
He continued outlining the plan, but Margaret barely heard. She was watching Edward's face as he listened, seeing the sharp intelligence beneath the aristocratic facade, the strategic mind that had helped him manage an estate despite his initial resentment of her father's money.
This was partnership. Real partnership. Not just managing a household or sharing a bed, but facing actual danger together. Trusting each other with things that mattered.
Three months ago, she would never have believed it possible.
Now it felt inevitable.
"Margaret?" Edward's voice pulled her back. "Your cousin asked you a question."
"Sorry. What?"
Robert smiled knowingly. "I asked if you can forge your father's handwriting. We might need a letter of introduction to sell the con."
Margaret thought about all the correspondence she'd handled over the years. "Yes. I can do that. Though Papa will kill me if he finds out."
"Only if we fail," Robert said cheerfully. "If we succeed, we're heroes."
"And if we fail?"
"Then we're probably in jail, so your father's anger will be the least of our worries."
"Very reassuring," Margaret said dryly. "I feel much better about this plan now."
Edward laughed and pulled her against his side. "Too late to back out now. We're committed."
"To the fraud investigation or to each other?"
"Both. Definitely both."
And looking at his face, at the confidence and affection and partnership written there, Margaret realized something.
She wasn't afraid anymore.
Of Edward, of their future, of saying the words that had stuck in her throat for weeks.
But first, they had criminals to catch and a father to save.
The declarations of love could wait until after they'd successfully committed fraud investigation without getting arrested.
Priorities, after all, were important.