“Earls, barons,” Hamish said. “A viscount or two.”
“Wasn’t there a duke in there as well?” Renard asked.
“You’re right. Duke of Wembley.”
It’s not possible.
She’d been waiting for him. The idea was ludicrous, as unimaginable as a lady who demanded a kiss in payment for silence. Or a lady who walked miles in the dark to check and see if a black-hearted devil was all right.
Would she say ‘yes’ if he asked?
Ties of any kind led to death. That had been the first rule drilled into him by his superiors.
But he wasn’t an officer in Her Majesty’s army anymore, nor an agent sanctioned by the Home Office. If he avoided the rookeries, his enemy list comprised of a single name.
Nic, that evil bastard, hadn’t shown himself in over three years—very possibly a rotting corpse at the bottom of the Thames. And if he was gone...
Danny was wild and sensual, clever and competitive, beautiful, charming... and she made the most erotic sounds when she came. Why couldn’t Percy beg her to take him?
He threw his cup and saucer on the table and went for the door. He bloody well was going to find out.
“Where are you going?” Hamish asked.
“To get my duchess.”
His friend waved him off with a knowing smile. “I’ll send your regrets to Charlotte.”
*
Percy’s hands wereclammy as he was shown to the second-floor drawing room. He’d practiced what he’d say, even memorized one of those insipid poems of Byron’s the ladies all twittered about. Over and over, he recited some benign description of a beautiful woman until the door opened and his mushed brain called out in greeting, “Of cloudless climes!”
Frankly, the young man who’d walked in was just as surprised as he was.
Taking in the split tailcoat and an unfortunate mismatch of polka dots and stripes all in the same ensemble, Percy assumed he’d just professed his affections to a half-blind footman.
But if the servant found Percy’s outburst odd, the man matched the insanity by saying, “I prefer Wheatley’s poem: ‘To Maecenas.’”
Percy blinked. “You prefer verses of inadequacy to lamentations of love?”
“Is that what you got out of it?” The man rubbed his chin, where a peppering of whiskers would have any housekeeper descending from the rafters in a rage. “I took the words as more of a hopeful prayer. An interesting perspective, Mr....?”
“Percy.” He grimaced, remembering he was a titled man and here on a formal visit. “Er—Grandfellow.”
The man’s dark brows arched. “The Duke of Grandfellow. How fortunate.” He plopped down on the divan opposite Percy’s seat and crossed his legs at the ankles, revealing a glaringly obvious mismatch of stockings. “Now we may speak.”
“Speak?”
“Size you up, to be frank.” The man’s dark gaze gave him a onceover in a way that felt familiar. “I have concerns about your worth.”
Were all footmen this blunt and patronizing? Percy reconsidered his distaste for English servants.
“How do you feel about fox hunting?” the man asked.
Percy had no idea the protocol in such an impromptu interrogation, but the man seemed sincere and unbiddable, and Percy could use a verbal match to calm his nerves.
“No prelude, sir? No pleasantries?” he asked. “No introduction?”
The man threw Percy a smirk. “Were you not the one who confessed your intentions upon my arrival, not even a formal kiss on the hand?”
