The butler cast an inquiring look in Charles’s direction, but Charles remained still, displaying no reaction, despite the anger simmering within. In his experience, an adversary responded more favorably to an absence of emotion. Silence often elicited more than words.
Which was just as well.
At length, the butler sighed, then stepped back.
“Very well,” he said, “though it’s most improper. Come inside. Quickly.”
Charles allowed himself a little smile at the notion of the butler wishing to usher his valet inside before anyone noticed such an outrageous act of impropriety in permitting a servant to use the front door. John returned the smile, and the two of them followed the black-clad figure through the hallway to a solid wooden door.
“Come,” a deep voice said as the butler knocked. He opened the door and Charles entered as the clock struck nine.
The study was as Charles would have expected—fashioned in deep, masculine colors to portray male dominance, every wall layered with books, forming a neat pattern, the gold embossing lined up as if someone had taken great care to place each book in exactly the right position. At the far end of the room, across a thick Aubusson rug, was a squat mahogany desk, its occupant silhouetted by the window behind him, his face in shadow.
Charles would have recognized Whitcombe even had he been concealed behind a screen. The very atmosphere in the room reeked of ducal dominance and the woody, spicy scent that had clung to theman last night when he’d threatened to put a bullet in Charles’s heart.
And my horse…
“Sir,” John said softly, and Charles grew aware of a sharp pain in his palm where he’d fisted his hands, digging the fingernails into the flesh.
“I see you’ve brought your valet,” Whitcombe said, rising. But his voice betrayed no surprise. In fact, two chairs had been placed before the desk.
He gestured toward the seats, then reached for a decanter filled with a dark amber liquid, poured two glasses, and pushed them toward the edge of the desk.
“And you’re on time,” he added, “albeit only just.”
John moved his hands.Is he always this uncivil, sir?
Charles responded,Only when his sister has tossed up her skirts.
Whitcombe leaned forward, and Charles found himself at the mercy of an unforgiving dark gaze from eyes that, save the expression of barely concealed anger, were almost identical to another pair of eyes that had penetrated his dreams last night.
Might he glimpse them again today? She must be somewhere within the walls of this house. Whitcombe was unlikely to let her wander about London until this damned marriage contract had been signed. Perhaps he’d parade her before Charles once their business had concluded.
Charles’s gaze shifted to the papers on Whitcombe’s desk.
“Would you care to share what you were discussing with your man, Devereaux?” Whitcombe said.
“My master was remarking on the elegance of your study,” John replied.
Whitcombe let out a huff, then picked up a piece of paper. “I’ve drafted the details of the contract.”
Already?
Charles leaned forward, and Whitcombe curled his mouth into a grim smile. “I see no need for delay, do you?”
Charles shook his head.
“Good,” Whitcombe said. “My lawyer is due in one hour and I’ll have him notarize the particulars. Now, perhaps…”
Charles raised his hand and Whitcombe paused, tilting his head to one side in that judgmental manner he’d displayed last night.
“Yes?” he said, his tone sharp.
Charles gestured toward the papers.May I at least be permitted to read them, given that I’m the one losing my liberty?
Whitcombe frowned. “I presume your master wishes to discuss the terms?”
“Ahem, yes,” John said.
