Before he could refine the thought, Dash’s voice called for them to enter.
Beatrice, of course, opened the door and marched straight inside. Gideon followed right behind her.
Dash’s study bore no hint of the ball taking place elsewhere in the house. No flowers. No masks. And once the door closed behind Gideon, there wasn’t even a whisper of music. Only dark paneling, shelves of leather-bound books, a low fire burning in the grate despite the summer night, and a decanter sitting untouched on a side table.
Dash was pacing before his desk, his coat thrown open, one hand shoved through his hair as though he had already been at it for some time.
Behind him, the new duchess sat at her husband’s desk, mask removed, blonde hair swept into an elaborate arrangement above her heart-shaped face. Her emerald gown was almost the exact shade of her eyes.
She looked Gideon over once—his damp shirt, bloodied sleeve, and stiff left arm—then turned her gaze to Beatrice.
What exactly did they know?
“Hawk.” Dash stopped when he saw him and then swiftly crossed the room. Gideon did not retreat.
If his friend meant to swing at him, so be it. A man ought to be permitted one blow under the circumstances.
But Dash did not strike him.
His hand landed on Gideon’s uninjured shoulder and gripped hard.
“I got a note that you’d been shot.” Dash quickly looked him over, immediately snagging on the tear in his jacket. “Said Groby sent someone. Here. To my wedding ball.”
“It was Hatherleigh,” Gideon said. “Blackwell and Longstaffe have taken him to the magistrate.”
Dash’s jaw tightened. “Hatherleigh?” He bit out a low French curse. “How the devil did that villain get into my house?”
Behind him, the duchess had gone very still.
“The masks,” she said softly.
Dash turned at once.
Her face had paled. “I thought they would be festive. Amusing. I never considered that someone might simply…”
“Ambrosia.” Dash crossed to her in two strides. “No.”
“But—”
“No.” His voice softened, but did not lose its firmness. “You did not invite a man with a pistol into our gardens.”
Gideon almost smiled despite himself.
Our gardens. Dash was well and truly smitten.
The duchess pressed her lips together. “Still, if I had not chosen a masquerade?—”
“You chose a ball,” Dash said. “For our friends. Our neighbors. The village. You made this house happy tonight.” His jaw hardened. “You have every right to assume safety within our home.”
Her eyes glistened faintly, but she nodded.
“Until tonight,” Gideon said. “Groby had given no indication he would resort to this,” he added. “Forged evidence perhaps—but not putting a pistol in another man’s hand to warn off anyone looking to challenge his claim.” His mouth tightened. “Not until tonight.”
Dash turned back, his expression darkening again. “You were shot.”
“Just a graze.” It didn’t signify. “Beatrice has seen to it.”
Dash’s gaze snapped to his sister.
