Page 7 of The Devil Himself
“Regardless, I am not receiving.” He was spending a rare night at home, his second-in-command Harris taking the club for the night. He had been out of sorts for two days thanks to that damned Lucian Fitzwilliam and his wild theories about Owen’s death, and he needed a night of quiet away from the noise of the Playground.
“The man is most insistent, my lord.”
“It’s not one of my brothers.” Surely not.
“No, sir. It is Lord Angelsey.”
“The devil you say.” What the hell was Fitzwilliam doing accosting him at his house? Portman Square was far enough from Grosvenor and Park Lane, respectively, where Angelsey’s own and his family townhomes sat. He’d always felt safe from their prying eyes in his corner townhome that lurked along the outer edge of society here.
“Send him away.”
“My lord…”
“Jarvis, who is the employer here?” Really, the fellow was insufferable. “Send him off.”
“Too late.”
He whipped his gaze up to meet Luc’s where the man stood in the doorway. “How dare you push your way in here?”
“I dare because I need to speak with you.” Luc strode into the room, looking for all the world like an avenging angel.
“Shall I have Mrs. Jarvis bring tea, my lord?”
“Good God no.” He waved Jarvis away. “Leave us be. And no listening at the door.”
“Aye, my lord.” Jarvis’s tiny grin made him bite back an oath. Disrespectful bugger.
“What do you want?” he ground out once the door had shut behind Jarvis.
“I need your help.” Luc took off his coat and his evening jacket, tossing them over a chair, leaving him in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
“I already told you I will not assist you.” Was the fool really going to ask him again? And why was the “fool” so damn attractive? That way lay madness.
He knew where to find his companions, and it was not in the Ton.
“You did.” Luc glanced about, then spied his brandy decanter and strolled across the room to help himself. “Would you care for one?”
“Damn, you are a brave one, aren’t you?” Rys glanced at his glass, though, and grabbed it up to hold it out. “If you please.”
Chuckling, Luc came to take his glass, fingertips grazing his hand, and a spark seemed to zip up his arm. He hid any reaction, he hoped, but he did watch that tight arse clad in slim, well-cut evening trousers as Luc walked away.
Might as well get something out of this.
Luc filled both glasses, then brought his back, going to Rys’s desk to lean on the edge rather than sitting. “So, I was speaking to Hannah today.”
He entered the conversation as if Rys actually knew him, actually had contact with his damnable family.
“And?” was all he managed.
“And she’s afraid to send Gareth back to Eton.”
He pursed his lips. “What has that to do with me?”
“And then, as I was leaving the house, your brother Daffyd confronted me.”
That had Rys raising a single brow. “About what?”
“He accused me of wanting to marry Hannah. And he told me he was going to do just so when her mourning period was up, and then he would be more than simply the guardian to the new marquess.”
