CHAPTER 8
“Do I look like the kind of gentleman that could consort with the likes of my brother?” Hector asked Jonathan as he looked distastefully at his proper London gentleman outfit. It fit him like a costume.
Jonathan smoothed the fabric over Hector’s broad shoulders with a professional proficiency.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but no,” Jonathan said. “Though I do not think that is necessarily your aim.”
There was a mildness in Jonathan’s tone that belied the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“Well, no, I don’t want to look like a ponce,” Hector admitted. “Or like I spend half my time with my head up my own arse.”
Jonathan cleared his throat at length.
“Apologies,” Hector said gruffly. It was too easy to hear Jonathan’s northern accent, the one that sounded like home, and forget that he was in the London lion’s den. “I shouldn’t put you in an uncomfortable position with your employer.”
“That would be admirable, Your Grace,” Jonathan said, clearly unbothered, “exceptyouare my employer.”
“Oh,” Hector said. “Right.”
“You’ll get used to the idea eventually,” Jonathan reassured him. “Because I am not going to let you lose your birthright to that … interloper.”
“Don’t let Matthew hear you talking like that,” Hector cautioned. “Because my victory is not at all guaranteed.”
Hell, Hector wasn’t even entirely certain that hewantedto win. There was something tempting about the idea of just going back to the North, returning to the simple satisfaction of making horseshoes that real people would use to benefit their real lives.
Unfortunately, Hector had a stubborn streak. It had served him well when he was beating metal into submission with just the force of his own arms and the hammer he wielded, but now it was going to make him fight for his stupid inheritance.
And today’s actions constituted the first step.
Hector resisted the urge to fidget with his too-tight cravat as he sat in the back of the carriage—hiscarriage, he reminded himself sternly, even if the idea of a carriage that was for his especial use and that sat around gathering dust the rest of the time made him feel itchy under this starched collar.
But if he were going to keep his dukedom, he needed to start thinking like a duke. Even if he hated to do so.
He needed to think like a duke if he were going to face down a duke. And he might not have known it yet, but Aaron Redcliff was due for a meeting with Hector.
It was time to put his plan into action.
“Clio, Clio, Clio!”
Phoebe came skidding into the library where Clio was reading with a small plate of sandwiches resting on her own chest. It was an undignified position, to be certain, but it also made it so she could eat and lie down and read all at the same time. Bliss.
After spending years of her life living in a Francophone country, Clio’s French was as fluent as her English, but itwasrather nice to read in her mother tongue.
“Phoebe, what?” Clio asked, a hint of a whine in her tone. She just wanted to be left alone to read for a day or two. It was a fine, time-honored way to ignore her problems.
“He’shere,” Phoebe hissed. “Good God, get yourself together! Fix your hair. You’re covered in crumbs, for goodness’ sake.”
“What?” Clio asked.
And then, the Duke of Metford appeared behind Phoebe.
Clio bolted upright, sending her book and sandwiches flying.
Good. This was good. This was the kind of impression she liked to leave on people.
The duke’s eyes tracked these movements. Then, he smirked.
“You know,” she told him acidly, because there really wasn’t any point in using her manners any longer, “a gentleman would have waited in the foyer until he was invited inside.”
