Page 109 of The Captive Duke
“Somebody means her dead.”
In terse words, he recounted a coach wheel coming loose, a cut girth, and a near miss with poison, any one of which should have been adequate to end the countess’s life.
But they hadn’t been.
“I rather hope Gillian’s characterization of events is the accurate one,” Marcus said. “Accidents, or a jealous mistress cut out of Greendale’s will.”
“In which case, having run off the kitchen maid, Gilly is safe enough at Severn.”
Gilly?
“Where she can dote on Lady Lucille,” Marcus said,though anybody doting on the girl was not a sanguine thought. “Send word, and I will be only too happy to enjoy your hospitality for as long as you need me.” The words sounded sincere, because they were sincere. Perhaps the first sincere thing he’d said all day.
“I appreciate it.” The duke crossed his wrists over the pommel. “I meant what I said about a loan, Marcus. We’re family, you looked in on my family for me, looked after my horse, held the reins while I was rotting away on a French mountainside. I owe you.”
Marcus swung out of the saddle and handed the tired gelding off to a stableboy. Mercia’s thanks should have gratified, but they only enraged. “Guarding your back was my privilege, and a loan won’t be necessary.”
“Be stubborn then, it’s a family virtue.”
“Or a vice,” Marcus said, particularly when exhibited by a captive of the French. “Stubbornness can definitely be a vice.”
Mercia smiled and cantered off, looking handsome, happy, and too goddamned healthy for words. Stubbornness might be a vice, but it was one they shared. Marcus took himself up to the house and bellowed for his secretary. That worthy came scurrying up from the kitchen and bowed to his master.
“I need to write a letter to Robert Girard, St. Clair House, on Ambrose Court in Mayfair. Have it couriered, and you’re to forget every bloody word of it before you leave this room.”
The secretary was used to such commands. He’dserved under the old earl and written many a note to the fair Helene for Marcus on various visits at Greendale. She’d never written back, but that hardly mattered now.
Maybe having Mercia meet up with brigands on his homeward journey would have been easier, but the Silent Duke enjoyed too much popular interest now. His death would be investigated, and the first question asked would be: “Who benefits from his passing?”
So let it be this way, with Girard serving as the instrument of Mercia’s death. No code of law or code of honor would protect Girard from the consequences of killing such a well-regarded nobleman, regardless that it was murder on the so-called field of honor. Girard at the very least would be hounded from the country, and not a soul would protest his absence.
No man whose body—whose hand—had been that badly treated could expect to prevail in personal combat, not even the unbreakable duke.
“Did you miss me, Gilly love?”
A great warm weight settled along Gilly’s back and shifted the mattress behind her.
“Did you lock my door?” Sleep hadn’t been elusive, it had been entirely absent, and only a portion of Gilly’s wakefulness had been on her own account.
“Of course I locked the door. What do you take me for? The maids know to leave my chambers alone comemorning, but I’d be completely undone did they walk in on me here. I like this bed, it’s cozier than mine.”
“Smaller, you mean.” She flopped over onto her back, trying to see him by the moonlight streaming in the window. “And you won’t be here in the morning.”
“Will too. Budge over. Cozy means I don’t want to be hanging off the mattress all night.”
She shifted to the far side of the bed, realizing he’d once again put himself between her and the door, something she’d never had to ask him to do. “How was Marcus?”
“Too much the officer for me,” Christian said. “Stop frowning at me, love, and cuddle up. The nights grow chilly, and we can’t have your favorite duke taking an ague.”
“Heaven forfend.” She curled down against his side, tucked her head on his shoulder, and slid a knee across his thighs, for he was her favorite duke. Also her favorite man. “Better?”
“You are all that is accommodating. I ran into St. Just saying good night to his horse. He said he had a thoroughly agreeable day, and why I haven’t married you defies reason.”
“You won’t allow me to find sleep,” Gilly said on a sigh. “You must badger me for good measure, haunt my dreams, and threaten to scandalize the maids in the morning to see me flustered.”
“You’re still indisposed, aren’t you?” He twisted his head to kiss her brow. “Poor dear. Your biology makes you cranky—has anyone ever told you that?”
“I’m going to sleep now.”
