Page 58 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

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It wasthe morning after the wedding. Rhys and Heath had settled in for a long wait in the drawing room of Simon’s residence. The two men had arrived separately, on foot, and met on the pavement. Only after Heath had made a detailed study of the premises had they slipped through the back passage from the stables into the house. The interior had an abandoned sense, but for the aroma of fresh pastry that wafted from the servants’ hall.

“I assume we are safe from spies,” Rhys remarked wryly as the butler showed them to the ground floor.

“Spies, dissidents, assassins.” Heath circled the drawing-room carpet. “Still, if I were you, I might check behind the sofa in case a debutante is lying in wait. I understand you are a popular gentleman about town these days. Eligible rakes are all the rage.”

The exchange had taken place two hours ago. A footman served tea with cheese and biscuits. Then a light luncheon of small beer and cold roast turkey. Coffee and pound cake. Sherry and more biscuits. Heath unbuttoned his vest.

“It’ll be dinner before you know it,” Rhys said, stretching his legs out spider-fashion over a footstool. “We shouldn’t have come. Not the day after they were wed. It’s damn gauche. I feel like a poacher waiting here in the dark. We weren’t invited.”

Heath scribbled something in the small journal balanced on the arm of his chair. “I promised Simon I would personally deliver any news to him that I receive. When I receive it.”

“How can you see to write? It’s like a closet with all the curtains drawn.”

“Months of practice.” Heath glanced up blankly. “Writing in a cave, in dirt, the back of a wagon, a church cellar.”

“God. I wonder that you kept your sanity.”

“God, indeed,” Heath said. “I had a Bible. I challenged myself to translate it into five languages. It kept me occupied, and sane, although I am still working on the Portuguese version.” He tucked his journal into his coat pocket and came to his feet as Simon appeared in the doorway. “Well, here’s our wayward duke now. We aren’t intruding on your privacy, are we?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Simon entered the room and crossed to the massive sideboard to pour himself a drink. “Have you been fed and watered?”

“To the gills,” Rhys said. “How is my sister?”

Simon raised his glass. “Splendid.”

“It’s not like her to stay in bed all day.”

Simon choked down a swallow of sherry. “She didn’t sleep much the night before the ceremony. Supposedly she stayed up chatting about her wedding trousseau or something of that nature. Then there was all the excitement of our escape.” He coughed to clear his voice. “Is that what you came here to find out? She is still very much alive.”

Rhys crossed his arms. “Aunt Glynnis asked me to remind her to eat. My sister forgets her meals when she becomes overexcited.”

Simon merely nodded. Ravenna had consumed only three Spanish oranges, a half-bottle of champagne, and a few sips of wine since last night. And she had been overexcited. So had he. He chose not to confess this intimate tidbit to his brother-in-law. He respected Rhys’ protective inclinations, but he was Ravenna’s husband and gladly assumed the responsibility of her.

He would also like to return to their bed. The memory of sinking inside her sweet body filled him with an impatience he battled to hide. He was not in a mood for a man-to-man. He turned to Heath. “Do I understand you have some information for me?”

“I believe so,” Heath said. “It came from one of Harriet’s criminal relatives.”

Simon didn’t bother to question the reliability of Heath’s sources in the London underworld. Ravenna’s sister-in-law, the former Harriet Gardner, once known as the “Duchess of St. Giles,” had been born and raised in the lawless rookeries. Some of Harriet’s family and former cohorts still lived in the slums. It was logical for Heath to maintain connections in the metropolis’s dark pulse.

“To the point,” Heath said, peering through the curtains to the garden. “It appears that no one known in the stews was paid to kill you.”

Simon put his glass on the sideboard. “That narrows the search to -- almost anyone.”

Heath smiled in grim accord. “The guests at Grayson’s party have all been quietly investigated. None of them seem particularly motivated to murder you, either, but several ladies expressed disappointment that you’ve been snatched off the marriage mart.”

Simon lifted his brow. “No remarks about Ravenna?”

Heath gave a short laugh. “Not that would be spoken in my presence.”

“What became of the old viscount Sir David cuckolded in the temple?” Rhys asked.

“As far as I know,” Heath said, “he has decided to forgive his wife’s infidelity. I didn’t think it was my place to encourage him to a different perspective.”

“And your overall opinion of the situation?” Simon inquired.

“You’re wise to conclude that another attempt will be made on your life. It’s improbable that a drunken prank-player sneaked through the guarded gates of a Park Lane house and climbed a tree to misfire his gun. Unless, of course, he had some personal grievance against Achilles. Stranger acts have occurred. That, of course, doesn’t explain the invitation you received. This isn’t to say you should never step outside again, but vigilance is warranted.”