Page 124 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
“He’ll fetch her,” Kincaid said. “She cannot leave without a servant knowing.”
“She’s not a prisoner.” Except, she was, or she might think she was.
“Sit down, my son.” Shaldon pointed to an empty chair at the table. “We shall solve this riddle.”
He walked to the far window, the one that overlooked the garden. Sirena, Perry, Lady Jane, and a host of servants sat around a woman and child.
The sight of her made his breath return and his heart slow to normal. Gracie was in the garden with Reina, well protected. He watched the footman bow before her and saw her glance up to the window.
Frowning. Charley jerked the window sash up, leaned out, and waved.
Her face settled. She kissed the little girl and followed the servant into the house.
When Charley turned back, all three men were watching him.
“I see I’ve lost one of my best operatives,” Farnsworth said. “Pensioned off to holy wedlock.”
“The Duquesa was not a tiresome labor for a single man,” Kincaid said. “Was she now, Charley?”
He walked to the table, the comment nudging a memory. “She told me last night, the Duque has ordered his yacht up to London. He has no plans to leave. Rather, he’s bringing someone in. Or taking someone out. A debt to pay, she overheard him say.”
The door opened and Gracie walked in, striding purposefully toward the table, ignoring him completely. “What did you find?”
Her gaze went to the burned book and she raised her hand up to her throat. She glared at Charley. “You went to Kingsley House without me?”
“You entertained Captain Llewellyn withoutme?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“You were not here. You left and did not tell me where you were going. Not that I expect you to live in my pocket, Charley, but you have no right to chastise me over this, especially not here, not in front of your father.”
A laugh bubbled up in him. He’d been expecting a lie, not a tongue-lashing.
He forced his face into a frown but could not speak.
“You did indeed know that I wished to speak to the Captain. I told you that many times.”
“And did you?” Charley asked.
“You could have called us, Graciela,” his father said. “We would have joined you.”
She leveled a gaze on Shaldon, her eyes narrowing, and slowly shook her head.
“Did you get the truth from him?” Charley asked.
Graciela glanced at him. That glint of humor had left his eyes. Having him laugh at her—even if it was inside, in his mind, in his heart, had pinched off her rising anger.
Dios, but she loved him.
Lord Shaldon sat in that strange stiffly erect way of his: unservile, commanding, oh-so-polite. He was cast bronze, from his smoothly cut hair to the long fingers resting on the table.
Yet a pulse jumped in his temple. He was impatient for her to speak. They were all waiting for her, even Charley.
She sat down in the empty chair, and the men seated themselves, all but Charley, who continued to hover.
“Will you tell me the truth, my lord?” she asked Shaldon.
He blinked and finally nodded. “If I am able to.”
“Did you send a man to kill my mother?”
