Page 27 of The Lyon Returns
“Of course” she said. “My reasoning is only logical.”
He snorted, and lifted his glass toward her in a silent toast.
She gazed at him over the rim of her glass, unblinking, and sipped.
His manhood stiffened. With a grunt of impatience, he swiped up the blasted blanket and balled it onto his lap.
Gwen, of course, noticed.
“Gideon, are you coming down with something?”
“No.”
She sniffed.
He had snapped at her again. He had not meant to. He could hardly explain to her, however, that his annoyance was directed at himself and his own lapse of control.
It had all started with that fresh, sweet scent, carried in on her skin, that ugly dress and her body, limned by the fire.
If that were all there was to it, he’d probably be fine. But he was quickly realizing Gwen was the most fascinating and enigmatic woman he’d met in as long a time as he could remember.
“Out of curiosity, why are you so sure I’m not the villain of this piece?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “It’s your turn, Devereux. Explain how our marriage aids you in untangling this situation.”
He was Devereux, now? “Fair enough,Barnes.”
One corner of her mouth quirked upward.
Her amusement pleased him an inordinate amount, God knew why.
“As it happens…” He broke off, contemplating the choice before him. Tell the truth, and let the chips fall where they may, or hedge.
He met her clear-eyed stare for a timeless moment, then made up his mind—for better or worse.
“As it happens, an eye-witness testimony claims to have seen my ship in the immediate vicinity at the time of the exchange. The Home Office seeks to determine whether or not I was there and complicit in the act of treason.”
“Did this exchange coincide with the date of our marriage?”
He gave her an admiring nod. “Not precisely. In essence, the date of our marriage, and its location—Calcutta—makes it impossible for me to have been in the waters off the Spanish coast when a ship bearing a strong resemblance to mine was sighted.”
“I begin to understand.”
“Do you?”
“Aye, sir. Someone set out to frame you.”
“What would you say if I told you Iwasthere?” he asked.
She nibbled the tip of her index finger and studied him as if working something out in that magnificent brain of hers. “I would ask you what led you there,” she said.
He sent her a slow, approving smile. His bluestocking, cognac-consuming, fae-channeling, pretend wife had just asked the exact right question.
“I received an anonymous tip, via courier, practically the day I arrived in Calcutta, advising me of the date the convoy was due in Cadiz to deliver the rifles, and warning me that someone meant to sabotage the delivery. I barely had time to inspect my warehouse—where I found nothing amiss—before I sailed for Spain. I made it to the coast mere days before the convoy arrived.”
Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “Naturally. Why on earth would you not hare off in hopes of heading off disaster on your own recognizance, while woefully outmanned?”
“What would you have done?” he demanded.
