Page 43 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

My friends are already there, sipping coffee and looking through the papers. It’s been a while since we’ve all been under one roof, besides Parliament that is, and I have to admit, it does my soul good to see them. They greet me with their usual enthusiasm, as if neither time nor wives had come between us.

“Well met, Norhaven,” Benedict Fortescue, Duke of Portswell, cries out. “You look as if you’ve been kept up all night, and not in a way of your choosing.”

William Dowding, Duke of Birchleigh, smirks and nudges his adoptive brother with his shoulder in response to our friend’s words. “Or, he’s been exactly where he’s wanted to be, and so he’s beyond exhausted.”

I can’t keep the ghost of a smile off my face as I recall leaving Cynthia in her bed, my marks on her arse and a smile on her lips. Though it’s been a day or so since I’ve seen her.

“As I said,” Birchleigh laughs. “Tell me, are you too enthralled with this ladybird to settle down and find you a proper wife? The pounds are yours the moment you walk down the aisle.”

“What need does he have of our coin?” Lewis asks as he comes over to the table. “He has enough of it to last him a long while. Allow the man freedom from the marital noose while he still has the chance.”

“Right,” Joseph Harding, Duke of Foxford, cuts in. “As if any of us feel led to the gallows by our women.”

“Some days,” Portswell moans. “Augusta continues to be the death of me.”

“Ahhh,” Birchleigh says. “La petite mort?”

“More like I want to strangle her, but you all know she’d like that far too much.”

As the lot of them laugh and carry on, I study their faces, looking for any sign, any hint that they might be behind these letters. I don’t wish to think ill of them, but the details are so intimate, so knowledgeable. I can’t help but wonder.

I let my gaze drift over the room, seeing if someone stares a little too long, or finds just a bit more interest in us than they should. I don’t find them, but I do find someone else. Blasted Henhaven.

He strides over, his mouth already quirked into a smile. Could it be him? Does he feel so threatened by me that he would add to the agony of losing Cynthia? Thinking quickly, I grab a small booklet of paper from my pocket and a pencil and turn to my friends.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to try. An experiment I’ve heard about while in service. Another officer taught it to me. Are you game?”

They shrug in turn and nod, their brows furrowed as curiosity gets the better of them.

“I’ve heard tales that one can determine the sort of man from how he writes. Here now. Each of you write down one word. Hmmmm. What shall it be?”

Closing my eyes, I pretend to concentrate, acting as if this idea comes from on high. “What about thorn?” I eventually say. “Good, strong word. What say you?”

With another shrug, they write the word and turn the notebook to me. Not one of the samples even comes close to matching the letters. But then, would they disguise their hand? These letters are driving me mad, to the near brink of insanity.

As a joke, I turn the papers this way and that, making a grand show of bringing them forward then drawing them back. With a critical eye, I pretend to examine the strokes as if I have any expertise at all in the matter.

“Well,” Lewis says, crossing his arms. “What do you see?”

“For you, the long stroke of the T denotes you’re a pompous arse who must have everything just so.”

“Really,” he smirks. “It says all that?”

“Truly. The little looped tail at the end of the N means you’re a bastard.”

“Ahh. Are you sure that’s a professional opinion or your own?”

Refusing to answer, I go down the line of men. “Foxford, your T shows that you’re studious, methodical, and a lover of literature.”

He laughs. “But we knew that.”

“And see, the letters confirm it.”

“I’m sure. Go on. Do Birchleigh next. I’d love to hear your assessment of him.”

The duke in question props his foot up onto the back of a chair and stands like a pirate while curling his fist to hold at his forehead, very much showing off his biceps.

“There is a slight gap between the O and the N. This tells me you are always one to cause delight in any situation, but still harbor some latent sorrow for not being born into your dukely status.”