“I am perfectly capable of caring for myself.”
Wanton continued searching while the Duke watched, saying nothing. The air between them thickened with unspoken things.
She opened a drawer and found three passports under three different names.
“Mr. Drake likes to be prepared,” she said. “He’s either a spy or a very efficient honeymoon crasher.”
She moved to a pastoral painting of sheep.
“This frame’s crooked,” she muttered, adjusting it.
The sheep fell away to reveal a hand-drawn map of the French coast, annotated with artillery positions, garrisons, and the phraseWeakest at low tide.
This was useless. Where did Drake keep his sculpture dealings?
The Duke coughed.
She plucked a music folio from the harpsichord and flipped open the sonata pages. A letter slid out—wax-sealed, DO NOT ALLOW PARLIAMENT TO LEARN OF THIS ARRANGEMENT.
Behind her, the Duke was reclined, watching her with deepening amusement. One brow arched. His fingers drummed against his thigh.
Wanton sniffed. “Everything in here is suspicious, but not a single clue about glutes. Nothing stolen, nothing carved, not even a transport crate.”
She opened a shaving mirror. Scrawled backward on the glass, in wax pencil, were the words:
“Explosives placed beneath bridge at Arques. Proceed as planned. —Rook.”
She blinked.
“That’s either a very aggressive grooming reminder or he’s planning to blow something up with aftershave.”
The Duke let out a long, slow exhale. “Miss Wallflower, you are the only woman who could find four separate acts of treason and consider them irrelevant to the case at hand.”
“They are!” she said indignantly. “None of them concern your backside, Your Grace.”
He sat back. “You truly are a menace."
She eyed a high cabinet speculatively. “There's something up there. Perhaps the glutes.”
The Duke started to rise. "Allow me—"
“No need.” Wanton waved him away breezily. “I'm quite capable.”
She placed one foot on a low shelf, gripping the wood firmly as she began to climb. Her fingers brushed something round and smooth, and she leaned further. Too far. Her footing slipped.
“Blast!” she yelped.
In a heartbeat, the Duke crossed the room. He caught her around the waist just as she lost her grip, pulling her tightly against him. And suddenly they were falling, tumbling back onto the bed—an unholy tangle of silk sheets, limbs, and one very powerful man trying not to swear.
They landed together—her atop him, his arms wrapped around her back, steadying her like a man used to catching falling things with consequences.
Her robe had slid askew, baring one thigh; his had parted at the collar, revealing chest and skin and heat. The only thing separating them was thin terry cloth.
His hands were wide across her back, rough-palmed and devastating. Her thigh was tangled over his hip. Their faces were inches apart.
“What were you thinking?” he snapped, voice furious. “You could have been seriously hurt.”
Wanton’s breath caught, heart hammering. “I—I had it perfectly under control.”
