Page 32 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Silence fell between them as Rowan filled his plate from the chafing dishes. The only sounds were the clink of silverware and the rustle of the newspaper as he unfolded it.

Selina sipped her tea, watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

Had she imagined the hunger in his kiss? The way his body had tensed when her hands touched his shoulders?

No, that had been real enough. But equally real was his current coldness, the careful distance he maintained as if nothing had happened between them.

“I have business in the city today,” Rowan said without looking up from his newspaper. “I expect to return late.”

“I see,” Selina set down her cup with deliberate care. “I’ll be visiting Lady Bingham this afternoon. She’s recently given birth to a daughter.”

Rowan acknowledged this with a brief nod before returning to his reading.

They finished breakfast without further conversation, the tension stretching between them like a taut wire. When Selina stood to leave, Rowan rose as well, his chair scraping against the floor.

They reached the door simultaneously, colliding in the narrow space. His hand shot out to steady her, fingers curling around her upper arm.

The contact sent warmth cascading through her body.

Their eyes met. For an instant, Selina thought she glimpsed something in his gaze, a flash of the same heat that hadconsumed them on the balcony. Then his expression shuttered once more, and he stepped back, gesturing for her to proceed.

“After you, Your Grace.”

Selina moved past him, the silk of her dress brushing against his legs.

She wouldn’t let herself be drawn in again. Whatever game Rowan was playing, she refused to be a pawn in it.

“I need to speak with whoever handled the investigation of the late Duke of Aldermere’s death,” Rowan told the clerk at the Bow Street Magistrate’s Office.

The young man looked up from his ledger, eyes widening with recognition. “Your Grace. Of course. That would be Mr. Grainger. He’s in his office now, if you’d care to follow me.”

Rowan followed the clerk down a narrow corridor lined with wooden doors. The building smelled of dust, ink, and sweat—the byproducts of London’s primitive attempts at justice.

The clerk knocked at the last door on the left, then opened it without waiting for a response. “Mr. Grainger, the Duke of Aldermere is here to see you.”

A stout man with graying whiskers rose from behind a paper-strewn desk. “Your Grace. This is unexpected.” He gestured to a wooden chair. “Please, sit. Jenkins, that will be all.”

When the clerk had gone, Grainger settled back into his seat. “What brings you to Bow Street, Your Grace? I haven’t seen you since your father’s unfortunate passing.”

“I want to review the details of my father’s death,” Rowan said, declining the offered chair. “There may be connections to other matters I am investigating.”

Grainger’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Your father’s case was straightforward enough. Gambling debts, bad crowd. Got himself cornered by some real unsavory men.” He pulled a leather folder from a stack on his desk. “I kept copies of the notes, given the prominence of the family.”

Rowan glanced at the folder. “Were the men who killed him ever identified?”

“Not the actual killers, no. But we found the man who gave the order.” Grainger tapped the folder. “Fellow named Silas Crowe. Debt collector with a nasty reputation. We located him about six months ago after you disappeared, Your Grace. He’s in Newgate now, awaiting transportation to Australia.”

Rowan’s interest sharpened. “Was Crowe ever involved with the Royal Navy?”

“The Navy?” Grainger looked puzzled. “No, certainly not. Crowe was strictly involved in moneylending and extortion. Kept to London’s underworld.” He leaned forward. “May I ask why you’re inquiring about naval connections, Your Grace?”

Rowan remained silent, his face revealing nothing.

Understanding dawned in Grainger’s eyes. “Your own disappearance last year and now you’re back, with that sea-weathered look about you.” He studied Rowan more closely, and a wave of shock drained the color from his face. “Were you press-ganged, Your Grace?”

The question hung in the air. Rowan’s jaw tightened.

“That’s a serious assumption, Mr. Grainger.”

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