“Are you going to need a hand with this interview?”
From anyone other than Cadogan, the query would have been delivered in jest. Cadogan’s came as the lethal offer it was. The assassin would perform a ruthless inquiry.
Argyll watched as the lady paused on the threshold. She lifted her creepily empty gaze to meet his own hooded stare.
A wave of some indistinguishable but palpable energy moved in the expanse between them.
“No,” he murmured. “You’re free to enjoy your wives.” He followed Miss Kearsley until she disappeared inside his residence. “I have this interview.” And he couldn’t settle on whether it was sickly eager anticipation or disgust that rose up inside him.
Chapter 6
The Duke of Argyll caught clear sight of Daria. His inscrutable gaze locked with hers.
He could have dismissed Daria.
But he hadn’t. The nearly imperceptible way he’d notched his chin gave the permission, which granted her entrance into his stately home, worthy of a king. In fairness, the opulent residence had been a gift to one of the earlier Dukes of Argyll.
Daria found her path blocked by two well-tailored gentlemen.
She looked them over. Of like height, each muscle-hewn. Broad across the shoulders. Narrow waist. Thick thighs. The other not. Gentlemen in name, but that’s where certainty of that title started and ended with the two.
Their features set them apart. One more classically handsome, the other marked with a jagged scar that bisected his brow and cheek.
The orange glow cast by the gilded sconces sent shadows flickering over his unyielding face, giving him a ghoulish appearance. An aura of darkness surrounded the stranger.
Fortunately for Daria, she’d long been fascinated by ghouls and ghosts. Further, the more conventionally good-looking gentleman she recognized on account of his wife. Lady Faith Rutherford showed Daria a rare kindness.
“My lord,” she murmured. “I know your wife. She is a good woman.” Not so much as a crack appeared in the stoic marquess’s hard features.
Daria shifted her gaze to the other stranger. “I don’t know you.”
That caught the pair by surprise. They exchanged glances. But neither proved forthcoming.
Daria swallowed a sigh. Social pleasantries would forever allude her. She sank into a belated curtsy.
The nameless, marked stranger spoke for the two men. “Miss Daria Kearsley, I presume.”
She perked up. “His Grace mentioned me?” That could either be a very, very good thing. Or a very, very bad one.
The shadow of a smile ghosted Lord Rutherford’s lips.
“Meeting Argyll, are you?” Lord No-Name remarked, his voice an icy whisper.
“Is that a question?” She puzzled her brow. “I venture not, as you were with him when he signaled me inside?”
His punishing gaze grew razor sharp.
Blast with rhetorical questions. What was the purpose of them but to confuse?
A sharp bellow sounded from the other side of the intricate carved door panel. “Miss Kearsley!”
Something akin to shock—the very first of outward reactions—crossed their faces.
Daria sighed. “Was he in a foul mood prior to my arrival?”
“He’s worse now,” Lord No-Name said.
Another shout went up. “Now.”
