He’d almost given her his real name. John, he’d almost said to her when he told her what to call him. John, a name heneverwent by or gave to anyone. John was a man who didn’t exist, a ghost he wanted to forget hadeverexisted.
And yetthatname had been on his tongue to give to her. He had almost surrendered some real and dark and hidden part of himself.
If hehaddone it, it could have been devastating to his case. Hewasn’tJohn Dane. To her and to the world he was currently Aiden Alexander Charles Morland Waring, sixteenth Duke of Clairemont. Just a hint of the truth could unravel the elaborate fiction he was telling and put himself and his case in great danger.
He’d never slipped up like that before on an assignment. He’d always fit himself perfectly into any role he was given and never once thought to bring any part of the real him into the light.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked out loud, slamming a hand down on one of Stalwood’s side tables hard enough that his palm stung.
“The night didn’t go well?”
He turned to find his mentor at the door, a smoking jacket around his shoulders, a pipe in his hand and a worried frown on his face.
Clairemont straightened and pulled at his coat to smooth it. “I—no, it was fine. Good evening, Lord Stalwood.”
“Good evening,” Stalwood replied, but he didn’t look convinced of Clairemont’s assertion as he pulled the door shut behind him. “Fine? You’re here very early and you’re beating on my furniture, so forgive me if I have a hard time believing you.”
“I’m sorry for my outburst,” Clairemont said, working hard to calm himself. “I know I’m early, but the nightwastruly fine. I merely excused myself with a slight headache in order to join you with my report.”
Stalwood lifted both eyebrows, but didn’t argue. “And your report is?”
“I met with Danford, just as we planned.”
“And what do you think of him?” Stalwood asked as he poured Clairemont straight scotch and handed it over.
Clairemont frowned. He must look a terror if Stalwood was trying to appease him with the good scotch. He drew in a few breaths to center himself further and took a drink, hoping to erase Celia’s sweet flavor from his lips. The liquor burned, but did nothing for his memories. He’d likely need four or five more to do that.
And he didn’t intend on drinking himself into oblivion tonight.
“I’m not sure what to think about him,” he admitted, at last finding his thoughts on his host for the night. “On the surface, he is a decent fellow, intelligent and even-minded. He seems to care for his workers and has a dream for the empire’s future that could be considered admirable.”
“A dream he’s making fistfuls of money with,” Stalwood pointed out.
“Yes, but he isn’t ostentatious with his wealth,” Clairemont said, thinking of the modest home Danford possessed. “It doesn’t seem to affect him much one way or another. I get the impression he likes being able to provide for his wife, but that seems to be out of a true affection for her. He doesn’t appear to be desperate for capital or willing to do anything to obtain it.”
“So do you think he is cleared as a suspect in a nefarious partnership with therealduke of Clairemont?” Stalwood pressed.
Clairemont sighed.Thatwas a more complicated question. He found he didn’t want to suspect Danford because he actuallylikedthe man.
And also because of Celia. Celia, the ultimate distraction to the game. If Danford and his wife were destroyed, she would be destroyed along with them.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s too early to say. I’d have to get closer.”
He said the last word reluctantly, for he knew the best way to do that. So did Stalwood, if his faint smile said anything.
“And the girl?” he asked.
Clairemont squeezed his eyes shut. “The girl?” he asked, though he knew exactly which girl.
“Celia, I think you said her name was. Danford’s sister-in-law.”
“Yes,” Clairemont said on a voice that barely carried. He found himself gripping his glass so tightly he feared it would shatter in his hand.
“You flirted with her before. Were you able to continue that connection tonight?” Stalwood asked, apparently oblivious to his employee’s struggle.
Clairemont set the drink aside so he wouldn’t destroy the glass and clenched his fists at his sides instead. He felt reluctant to share anything more than he had to about Celia, even though he trusted Stalwood. And his friend trustedhimto tell the truth.
“Yes,” he finally admitted. “I have no doubt that Miss Fitzgilbert has an interest in the Duke of Clairemont. And her guardians seem to have no objection to a continuation of our affiliation.”
