Page 92 of His Grace, the Duke
James tugged on his other boot. “George, for the love of God, please just tell me what you want.”
George shrugged away his confusion. “Right... well, it’s difficult to know where to begin.”
“Heaven, help me,” James muttered, snatching up his coat and cravat as he moved around to sit behind his desk. He gestured to one of the empty chairs. “Should we both be sitting for this?”
George considered before taking a seat. “Yes... perhaps that would be best.”
James shuffled a few things on his desk. “Alright, out with it.”
“Fine,” George huffed. “But just know that, when I confide in you what it is I’m about to confide, you’re going to becomecross with me. You’ll accuse me of meddling... which might be accurate... but please know I do so with your best interest at heart.”
“I swear to Christ, George—”
His curse died on his lips as George reached into his pocket and took out a stack of letters tied with a blue ribbon. He slid them across the desk at James. The last time James saw those letters, they were clutched in Rosalie’s hand as she tried to tuck them behind her skirts.
“What are those?” he muttered, heart in his throat.
“Why do I get the feeling you already know?”
James scowled. “Where did you get them?”
George drummed his fingers on the desk. “I think you already know the answer to that too.”
He slapped the desk with his hand. “Goddamn it, George! You went through her things, didn’t you?”
“Of course, I went through her things! I am the duke, and her welfare is my responsibility.”
“Oh, spare me,” James growled.
George pursed his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine, I snooped, alright? Are you happy? The minute you left, I charged into her room and tossed her trunks, and I foundthese.” He waved his hand at the offending stack of letters.
“You know, there is such a thing as personal property—”
“Not for a duke—”
“A court would disagree!”
“What was I supposed to do?” George cried. “This sweet little apple falls from the heavens into our midst, and we’re to ask no questions? You might suffer from a chronic case of disinterest, but I can’t live like that, James. I’m a curious person!”
“So, you stole a lady’s private correspondence?”
“They’re not correspondence... not exactly. And they’re not hers.”
“That’s not the point—wait—what?”
George leaned forward. “Don’t you want to know what they are?”
God, yes. Rosalie, what secrets are you keeping?
“No.”
“It’s scandalous, James. Our dear mama has much to answer for,” George teased.
“Our mother? What does she have to do with this?”
“Tell me brother . . . who is Francis Harrow?”
James clenched his jaw. “I believe that is the name of Miss Harrow’s father.”
