Hazel was fascinated to discover he too was flushing. But he hastily clasped his hands behind his back in a forbidding stance, and forced his countenance into one of severity. “You need not tell all my secrets, Lettie,” he cautioned his sister quietly.
But there was such tenderness, such love in his voice, that it was unmistakable. So too the manner in which the duchess smiled at Lucien. Brother and sister loved each other very much. Hazel recalled his sadness when he had spoken of their rift, of hoping their differences could be mended.
The duchess hummed noncommittally and turned her attention toward her handsome husband. “May I present my husband, the Duke of Strathmore?”
The duke bowed formally, but when he rose, he was grinning. Hazel did not know what she had expected, but it had not been precisely this rakish, dashing duke with a teasing air. After all, had Lady Beaufort not mentioned something about him turning the family porcelain into a dagger?
“Formerly known as the Duke of Duplicity, according to Lady Beaufort,” he added with an affable air, having the daring to wink at the lady in question. “Or may I call you Aunt Hortense too, now that we are family?”
“No.” Lady Beaufort sniffed. “You may not.”
“Some things never change.” Strathmore pinned Lucien with an arch look. “Speaking of which, forgive me for reveling in the day the mighty Duke of Arden has sought me out for assistance. I regret that it involves dynamite, and I am heartily relieved the bomb was discovered in time and no one was injured, but I must admit to a certain satisfaction in the irony.”
A muscle twitched in Lucien’s jaw. “I still do not like you, Strathmore. The only reason I sought you out was for the sake of Miss Montgomery and Aunt Hortense.”
“I am aware.” Strathmore grinned. “It is a pleasure to watch you squirm.”
“My love.” The duchess shot her husband a quelling look. “Now is not the time for gloating.”
“Forgive me, Vi,” Strathmore said instantly, his tone penitential.
Odder still to see how much the duke was in his duchess’s thrall, Hazel thought. But she was beginning to gain a clearer idea of the family dynamics at play. She knew why Lucien and Strathmore would mix as well as tea and tar. Lucien was controlled and rigid, while Strathmore was brazen and irreverent.
“Whilst this dialogue is most engrossing,” Lady Beaufort interrupted acidly, “I am old, and I am tired. These ancient bones have been roused from sleep and paraded about half of London. Where might I find my chamber, Violet darling?”
“I will see you and Miss Montgomery settled,” the duchess said instantly. “Do forgive me, Aunt Hortense. Come, you must be weary.”
Only Lady Beaufort could insult her hostess, then be instantly shepherded to her bed for the evening, with sympathy no less, Hazel thought wryly. She had developed a keen sense of respect and admiration for Lucien’s aunt, however. They had a great deal more in common than Hazel would have supposed, and she knew the tenderness which lay just beneath her wizened, reserved façade. Beneath the older woman’s cool hauteur, beat a broken heart.
Hazel glanced to Lucien, wondering when the two of them would reconnoiter.
“You need your rest,” he told her. “Go.”
“But we need to dig into the investigation,” she protested, partly because for so much of her life, her work had been her life’s blood, and partly because she needed to bring the men responsible for the railway bombings and the bomb beneath her bed to justice.
He came to her, not daring to touch her before mixed company, but the emotion in his eyes felt like a caress. “Miss Montgomery,” he said, his formality feeling so unutterably wrong, “please. Go with my sister. I will make certain the perimeter of this house is safe. We have guards stationed, and we took great care to make certain no one followed us here. You have suffered a shock, and after everything you have endured, what you need most is to sleep. The investigation will wait for tomorrow and the sunrise.”
“Are you going to rest as well?” she countered. While she was grateful he cared enough to want to see to her well-being and safety, she could not shake the feeling he was treating her now as if she were a defenseless woman. As if he were her protector.
She had not been defenseless from the moment she had first learned to shoot a pistol, and she had no intention of becoming defenseless now. Nor would she simply trail in Lady Beaufort’s wake like a lost puppy who had been ordered to her bed.
Lucien sighed, then compressed his lips, staring at her. “I need to speak with Strathmore. Alone. And then I too will seek my rest for the evening, back at Lark House, after I finish questioning my staff. We will be sharper, our investigation far more clear-headed, if we attempt to get some sleep. If we wear ourselves ragged, those villains will outsmart us, and we cannot afford to allow that to happen.”
She studied his handsome face, wondering when it had become so beloved, and decided he was right. Though she wanted to protest his returning to Lark House after what had occurred, she had no claim upon him, and she knew it.
Likely, he wished to address what had happened with Strathmore and lay it to rest once and for all. And she knew better than anyone, conducting an investigation on little sleep was a poor plan indeed. The night before Adam’s murder, she and Adam had stayed up until dawn analyzing evidence. They had separated for no more than four hours of sleep each, and she had always known that lack of proper rest had left her weary and under-prepared for the depth of evil she would face later that day.
If she had been prepared, Adam may still be alive.
But if Adam were still alive, she would be his wife, and she very much doubted the Duke of Arden would be looking down at her now, with such intense concentration, as if she were the focus of his entire world. Nor would she want him to.
The knowledge was bittersweet, because she was beginning to realize what she had found with Lucien—however fleeting—was every bit as valid and necessary as what had happened so long ago between herself and Adam.
Because she loved Lucien too. It was a different love than the one she had possessed for Adam. She was older now, changed. Wiser. Harder. But as she stood in the gilt-bedecked salon of the Duke of Strathmore, she knew it without a doubt.
She had lost her heart to the man standing before her.
For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was going to do what a man had asked her to do, and it was because she respected him enough to do it. Not because she was deferring to him.
