All Tavish’s attention was on locating his wife.
A strong hand seized his arm. With automatic movements—a quick jerk of his arm and a twist of his upper body—Tavish tossed off the footman who had grabbed him. Blood pumped in his veins, his every sense alert as if this were a battlefield.
“Isla!” he shouted again, starting up the stairs.
Two more footmen raced into the entryway. Fletch had subdued the butler and pivoted to face the footmen, fists raised.
“I say!” a decidedly aristocratic voice called behind Tavish. “What is this tumult?”
Tavish pivoted on the stairs.
A gentleman stood just inside the doorway of what appeared to be a drawing room.
Lord Matthias Kinsey.
He stood tall—the sleeve of his right arm pinned up at the elbow, a book in his solitary hand.
With a stern shake of his head, Lord Matthias waved off the footmen and butler. “I have this in hand, McPherson. As you were.”
“But, my lord—” the butler began.
Lord Matthias gave another severe shake of his head. “Enough.” But Tavish noted how the book in his hand trembled.
Tavish walked down the staircase, Fletch joining him.
Tavish had rarely seen Lord Matthias, even as a boy. A few years older than Tavish, the gentleman had the look of Isla in the shape of his face and the watchfulness of his gaze.
“Balfour.” Lord Mathias nodded.
“Lord Matthias.” Tavish gave an abbreviated bow, lungs a bellows. “I am in search of my wife.”
“I see.” Gesturing again with the book in his hand, Lord Matthias indicated that Tavish and Fletch should step into the drawing room.
“Thank ye.” Tavish righted his coat, adjusting his collar. He had not expected to find an ally in this place.
The drawing room was everything Tavish would expect of Grayburn’s position and wealth. An enormous gilt mirror hovered over an equally impressive marble fireplace. Paintings by Caravaggio and Gainsborough graced the walls, and a lush Aubusson carpet rested underfoot.
Lord Matthias looked at Fletch. “And your companion?”
So polite, that sentence. As if they had merely come calling for tea.
Tavish made quick introductions, breathing heavily. He was primed for a fight, and though he had partially gotten one, Lord Matthias’s gentlemanly demeanor was jarring.
“What the devil!” Grayburn’s loud voice sounded in the entrance hall. “Where is that scoundrel? Someone fetch me a whip to drive him from my home!”
Excellent. Here came the fight Tavish craved.
Lord Matthias half rolled his eyes. “Gray is mostly bark, though under a bit of strain at the moment. Stand your ground, Balfour.” He took a large step back, retreating to the wall just as Grayburn barreled into the room.
“You blackguard!” Grayburn speared Tavish with a dark look. “I will see criminal charges brought for this, pushing your way into my home and assaulting my staff.”
The duke came up short when he noticed Fletch, arms crossed, standing at Tavish’s side.
“Archer and I have come to fetch my wife, Grayburn,” Tavish said. “Even you cannot hold your sister against the will of her husband.”
“What wife?” the duke asked with silky ease, his glee barely masked. “You don’t have a wife, Balfour.”
Anger flared through Tavish’s veins. Fletch had been right.
