Page 39 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
His brother nodded toward the room at large. “All this pomp and drama and mystery. The unveiling of yer future duchess, et cetera. It’s quite unlike ye.”
What was it about an observant insight that made a man yearn for a drink? “I’ve a new reputation to uphold, or hadn’t you heard?” he said flippantly. “Doesn’tthisseem worthy of the Terror of Torcliff?”
Ramsay snorted. “These people are as absurd as the moniker they’ve christened ye with.”
“On that, dear brother, we can agree.” Piers glanced at Ramsay through narrowed eyes, conducting an assessment of his own. “Yet you slither amongthese peopleas though they were your own. You should have been a duke, not I.”
“The thought has crossed my mind.” Ramsay lifted a wide shoulder in an insouciant shrug. “Necessity dictatesI navigate their world. But only so that I may mitigate their barbarity.”
Piers smothered his surprise at the note of disdain his brother had allowed into his voice. He’d always assumed Ramsay enjoyed the way he’d infiltrated theton.Not by way of birth, but by a prestige and presence, not to mention wealth, that they couldn’t ignore.
As an erstwhile duke, Piers had never looked up to his elder brother in any way but literally, as the bastard was all of three inches taller and outweighed him by a spare half-stone.
Perhaps Ramsayshouldhave been the duke; he’d the temperament for it. All steely resolve and unimpeachable morals.
Or, should he have been the huntsman? He’d the stature for it. The ferocity. The iron will and apparent fortitude for suffering. His Scottish father had given him the rough-hewn build of his Highland ancestors, and their mother had imparted all the British imperious pretension his great, loutish body could convey.
“If I’m honest, I’m surprised you came,” Piers murmured. “It’s not even an election year. Why should both of us have to suffer through something so tedious?”
“I’m as breathless as the rest of the empire to meet yer bride.” Ramsay slid him a droll look from blue eyes identical to his. “Besides, I should be seen with strong family ties.” He clapped Piers on the back with a solid hand, and Piers wondered if he did it for his benefit, or for that of theton.Their eyes were like a thousand tiny lances pricking him with dubious regard.
“Which family?” Piers sneered. “Your disfigured, ne’er-do-well younger brother, or our cousin who allowed himself to be seduced by my former fiancée while I was on my deathbed?”
The ghost of a wry smile haunted his brother’s lips before vanishing, and Piers tried to remember the last time he’d ever seen Ramsay smile.
Maybe never, come to think of it.
“I’m sorry she turned out to be like our mother.” Ramsay drank again, his features turning to stone as he gazed out toward the woman Piers had been avoiding all night.
“Case.” The nickname fell from Piers’s lips as easily as it had when they were boys. “I’m fairly certain someone attempted to murder my fiancée yesterday.”
That earned him the full brunt of Lord Ramsay’s regard. Was it any wonder criminals and nobles, alike, trembled before him? It wasn’t just his size, stature, and power that intimidated, it was the force of his disdain. The Caesar-like, tyrannical dominion he wielded.
“Fairly. Certain.” As usual, he plucked the most important words from the exchange.
“I chanced upon her and her bridesmaids exploring the ruins yesterday morning, and barely arrived in time to interrupt two gunmen.”
“Christ’s blood.” His brother tensed, alert as a hound on point. “Why did I not hear of this? Was anyone shot?”
“Only the gunmen. One is dead, and the other hovering quite close.” A dark satisfaction rose within him at the thought. “I was hoping you’d look into it. Use your vast connections to suss out any reason someone would want my fiancée dead.”
“Piers, chances are that person is here tonight,” Ramsay cautioned. “Ye should have yer woman and her companions protected at all times.”
“I can see all three women at this very moment, though I must be careful lest the observant, hungry crowd make any correct assumptions before the reveal.” He smirked. “I’ll admit I enjoy their suspicions and suppositions.”
A put-upon sigh was his brother’s reply. “Ye ken, I’ll need to know the identity of yer bride and her companions sooner than later, if ye want my help.”
“I’ll narrow it down to three, but I’ll not gesture.”
Ramsay stepped closer to the balustrade. “Who are they?” he muttered, his lips moving imperceptibly.
“Lady Francesca Cavendish.” Piers found her scarlet skirts immediately, as red tended to be her color of preference. “She’s dancing with the dandy young Viscount Crossland at the moment. Then there’s Miss Cecelia Teague, in the peacock mask. She’s over by the refreshment table.”
“I can see why she’d entice ye,” Ramsay commented, taking another sip as he thoroughly inspected the intrepid Miss Teague.
“I told you not to stare.” Pierce nudged him.
Ramsay blinked, breaking from some sort of trance. “Of course, who else?”
