Page 33 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“Your Grace…” Grainger’s voice lowered. “If someone had you forcibly enlisted, that’s a crime we can prosecute. Even if they had naval connections.”

“You misunderstand my interest,” Rowan said coldly. “I simply wished to verify the details about my father’s death.”

“With respect, Your Grace, I don’t think I misunderstand,” Grainger stood, his expression earnest. “If you were press-ganged, you should come forward. The Bow Street Runners can help bring whoever did this to justice.”

“You presume too much,” Rowan replied. “And I suggest you keep your ridiculous suspicions to yourself.”

Grainger’s face paled slightly. “I would never spread this, Your Grace. My sole interest is justice.”

“Then confine your justice to proven facts,” Rowan said. “And leave speculation to novelists.”

Grainger nodded stiffly. “As you wish. But should you reconsider, my door remains open.” He hesitated, then added, “You might look into your father’s rivals or other enemies. The late Duke was not universally beloved, if I may speak plainly.”

“Duly noted,” Rowan said, turning to leave. “Good day, Mr. Grainger.”

He strode from the office, his mind churning. Grainger had eliminated one possibility, the debt collector Crowe, but hinted at others.

His father’s enemies.

The blackmailer L.B. mentioned in the solicitor’s records.

The trail remained frustratingly obscure.

Lost in thought, Rowan nearly collided with a gentleman turning the corner onto the street.

“Well, well,” Felix drawled, smoothing his rumpled coat. “If it isn’t the Duke of Aldermere, emerging from the halls of justice.”

Rowan looked his friend up and down. Felix’s clothes were the same as the previous night, but significantly dirtier. His cravat hung loose around his neck, and a faint stubble darkened his jaw.

“What are you doing here?” Rowan asked.

Felix grinned, falling into step beside him. “I might ask you the same question. Bow Street at this hour? Most unusual for a duke.”

“My business is my own,” Rowan replied, increasing his pace.

Felix matched his pace effortlessly. “That wasn’t always the case, you know. There was a time when your business was mine. When friends actually spoke to each other.”

Rowan said nothing, his eyes sweeping the street for a hackney.

“Speaking of friends sharing secrets,” Felix added lightly. “Care to tell your oldest friend what about your balcony interlude with the Duchess?”

Rowan stopped walking. “If you value our friendship, you’ll never mention that again.”

“And there it is!” Felix threw up his hands. “The wall. The impenetrable fortress of the Duke of Aldermere. God forbid someone actually care about what’s happening in your life.”

“You don’t understand.”

“How could I? You tell me nothing!” Felix’s voice lost its teasing edge. “After all the years of our friendship, do I really deserve this silence? The man I knew would’ve trusted me—would’ve let me stand beside him, not shut me out like some stranger.”

“Some burdens can’t be shared.”

“Nonsense,” Felix blocked his path. “I am here whether you like it or not. And I swear, I’ll nag you like a fishwife on market day until you crack! And you know I mean that, Aldermere!”

Rowan groaned, knowing from experience that Felix could fully become the most irritating presence in London when he set his mind to it.

“Not here,” he said finally. “Somewhere private.”

Felix’s face brightened. “My townhouse is just around the corner.” He flagged down a passing hackney with an elegant wave. “And I have an excellent brandy that will loosen that stubborn tongue of yours.”

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