Both men were staring strangely at Argyll. Did they believe he’d challenge the security protocol.
“What?” As soon as Argyll asked, he understood. He drew back. “Notallthe wives.”
Another look passed. “Argyll, you must know that among us, Kilburn is the steadiest hand when it comes to guarding our wives.”
“Speak to me in those patronizing tones again, DuMond,” Argyll vowed. “and I will make you swallow your teeth.”
His best friend didn’t take the bait and give Argyll the fight he craved. Naturally, his brother-in-law, the Assassin, obliged. “What is this about?”
Welcoming an outlet for his frustration, Argyll squared off with Kilburn.
The knowing glint in the hardened man’s eyes caught him unawares. What did the other man suggest?
Unnerved, Argyll moved between his partners. They both wore the same bloody expression. He straightened; every line of him hardening. “This isnotabout mewantingher here.”
The speed and sameness with which the pair spoke made liars of them.
“No one said it was.”
“Not at all.”
To DuMond’s credit, he at least made the attempt.
Kilburn drew out the three syllables in a taunt. “What constrained you earlier? Hmm? When Colhoun summoned you—not once, but twice. You had your wife backed against the wall—”
Argyll rushed for Kilburn’s smirking face.
DuMond wedged himself between them. “Enough!” He backed them away from one another. “My God, we’re in the middle of a bloody war and you two cannot put aside your animosity.” The look DuMond reserved for Kilburn, however, placed blame where blame was due. This time.
“We do not have time for this,” DuMond declared. “Not only do we have a business to worry after, we have family whom we love who are in need of protection.”
Love?
Argyll withdrew his gaze for a moment; his composure held fast.
“He is right, isn’t he?” Kilburn’s cold smile begged for the fight they’d been denied.
“That puling emotion you speak of?” Argyll met hardened eyes with his even harder ones. “Is precisely why Her Grace would be best served here. You don’t have the head about you. Furthermore,” he said, the subject settled. “The duchess serves a purpose your wives do not.”
Silence met his cool, emotionless statement—as did their condemnation, and it echoed with Daria’s whispered words on their wedding night.
“…I do not want to be duchess, Gregory…I want to be your wife….”
An unwelcome warmth spread beneath his sternum.
“My wife stays with me,” he repeated so it was clear.
“What uses do you have for the duchess?” DuMond asked, his gaze coldly disapproving.
His jaw tightened at the phrasing.
“You’ve failed to speak with us about any plans.” The marquess glanced Kilburn’s way. “Unless I’m the only member of our triumvirate unaware of the scheme?”
The dead-eyed earl shook his head. “I know nothing.”
“The Duchess is close with the Caldecott family. She will bring us closer to Craven.”
“Craven?” DuMond repeated. “Craven whom we cast out? You cannot mean the man who nearly saw my wife killed.”
