Page 2 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“If you’re smart,” Merrick added, “you’ll forget this conversation ever happened.”

Rowan stood, adjusting his coat. “I appreciate the concern.”

“It ain’t concern.” Merrick’s eyes were solemn. “It’s a warning. You turn over these stones, there’s no telling what might crawl out.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Rowan left the tavern and stepped into the chilly night air. Captain Hadley. Bribes. Portsmouth. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d had yesterday.

Finally, he could begin his hunt in earnest.

The London townhouse was ablaze with light when Rowan’s carriage finally pulled up the following evening.

He hadn’t meant to stay away so long, but the trail had led him across half of London, from shipping offices to naval records to seedier establishments where men with loose tongues could be persuaded to speak.

Most of it had been fruitless. Captain Hadley had indeed retired from service after the war, but the name of his co-conspirator remained elusive. And unfortunately, the Intrepid’s logs had been suspiciously incomplete for the period in question.

Rowan’s head throbbed with exhaustion as he climbed the steps to his front door. It swung open before he could reach for the handle.

“Your Grace,” Simmons stood in the doorway, relief written across his usually stoic features.

Behind him, several members of the household staff hovered anxiously.

“Simmons,” Rowan nodded, stepping inside.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, clutched her hands to her chest. The footmen exchanged glances. Even the scullery maid had crept up from below stairs to peek around the corner.

“We were afraid… that, well… Your Grace, we—” Mrs. Wilson said, her voice quavering.

“That I’d gone missing again?” Rowan finished for her, and the housekeeper gulped.

“Well… y-yes, Your Grace,” she mumbled back.

The guilt that had become his constant companion twisted sharply in his chest. Their fear was justified. For a year, they had not known if their master was alive or dead.

“I assure you I have no intention of vanishing again. You have my word,” Rowan said firmly.

The tension in the hall eased visibly. Simmons stepped forward to take his coat.

“You have a visitor, Your Grace. The Marquess of Halston has been waiting in the parlor since four o’clock.”

Rowan clenched his jaw. Felix. He’d have wanted to go to him first, but apparently, the cat was out of the bag now.

“Very well. I’ll see him now,” Rowan said and made his way to the parlor, bracing himself.

Felix had been his closest friend since their days at Cambridge, which meant he would demand explanations Rowan wasn’t prepared to give.

The parlor door swung open. Felix lounged in Rowan’s favorite armchair, a glass of brandy dangling carelessly from his fingers.

At the sight of Rowan, Felix’s eyes widened. The glass slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor as he leaped to his feet.

“Rowan!” Before Rowan could react, Felix had crossed the room and enveloped him in a fierce embrace.

Rowan’s body went rigid, unaccustomed to such displays of affection. “What, no teasing quip?” he asked, his arms remaining firmly at his sides.

Felix released him and immediately landed a solid punch to his shoulder. “I’ve been worried sick about you, you inconsiderate bastard! I looked everywhere. I lost sleep over you.”

The naked emotion in his friend’s voice made Rowan’s body go stiffer. He took a step back, putting distance between them.

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