Page 10 of The Wayward Duke
A pause, weighted. His knuckles were white around his pen. “Please.”
The single word severed the fragile threads of the moment. Her jaw clenched. Without another word, she grasped the vase and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
5
Julian drank at his usual spot at Whites. The club’s public rooms were subdued this afternoon, most members not yet recovered from last night’s entertainments. Newspaper pages rustled. Teacups rattled. Julian savoured the respite from Stafford House.
When he boarded his ship to Italy, he was going to get raving drunk to forget Caroline again.
A movement in his periphery tore him from memories. He nodded in greeting as Mattias Wentworth made his way towards him.
“Duke,” Wentworth said, taking the seat across from him. “You’re looking rather worse for wear today. Trouble at home?”
Wentworth wore politeness with deceptive ease, like a bespoke jacket concealing weapons underneath.
“As I’ve made clear, I don’t discuss personal business with the Home Office.” Best to get this over promptly so he could return to brooding. Julian reached into his pocket and flicked the folded foolscap onto the table.
“I appreciate your speed,” Wentworth said, pocketing the missive.
Julian leaned back and sipped his drink. “I doubt I would have been so quick if the duchess hadn’t contributed her insight.”
The other man gave him a stern look. “I believe I ordered discretion.”
Julian stared at him. “I may not know the exact nature of your true profession, but I’m not an underling, nor someone you can give orders. My wife is just as skilled at code-breaking as me. She has a better mind for certain patterns.”
A muscle jerked in Wentworth’s jaw as he handed Julian a new coded letter. “I need this one quicker than the last.”
Julian let nothing show on his face as he studied the symbols. Snatches of conversation from nearby drifted over to him, fragments of gossip from men talking about their mistresses, political projects, and investments. Julian ignored them.
After a few minutes, he blinked. “A polyalphabetic Vigenère tableau, maybe,” he murmured. “More complex than your last. Have you annoyed someone?”
Mattias’s smile was wry. “I’m always annoying someone.”
“Mm.” Julian considered the code again. “I couldn’t help but notice that your last was in Russian, but the boastful notes you gave me were in German and Italian. This individual has used such an interesting collection of languages to taunt you after taking responsibility for the steamboat sinking. The Earl of Stradbroke was on it, I recall. Didn’t the thing disappear into the Atlantic? Three hundred souls lost, I believe.”
The other man’s expression became shuttered, dark eyes turning to ice. “If you’re about to ask a question, I suggest you rethink it.”
“I’m relieved to hear we have progressed from ordering to suggesting,” Julian said. “But I’ll ask it, anyway. Who are these letters from?”
The other man hesitated, reluctance weighing down his words. “We don’t know his name. Six months ago, the letters started arriving, and our code-breakers could never solve them in time to prevent two tragedies—the steamboat, and a building collapse that killed fifty, including Lord Baresford. Whoever this man is, he enjoys being chased and outsmarting us. So I need you to work quickly. That letter was sent a fortnight ago, and if the pattern holds, we have a catastrophe about to happen. Yes?”
“I’ll need to ask my wife to assist, then.”
Mattias gave him a sharp look. “You’ll both be discreet, or I’ll ruin you.”
Easy words to intimidate a lesser man.
“Don’t make me regret helping you, Wentworth,” Julian said, very softly.
A charged beat of silence followed between them. Wentworth broke it first, expression unreadable as he stood. “Don’t make me regret asking.”
Julian watched him go before letting out a long breath, his mind turning to the task at hand. Asking Caroline for help meant putting them in even closer proximity – forcing them together more than they already were.
He didn’t know how long he remained at the club, deep in thought, but as he rose to depart, his attention fell on the group of young gentlemen clustered around the betting book. They looked his way and made some hushed comments, laughing.
Julian passed them by – but then he noticed the bet that had made the idiots go silent.
Lord Rivers bets Lord Alington one thousand pounds that a duke and duchess understood between them shall divorce on or before this day six months.
