Page 23 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“Leave me to deal with her.” He would undertake the task only too gladly. “Come,” he said, after lifting the cup of now-cold chocolate to his lips and swallowing its contents with unanticipated relish. “Finish your breakfast and I’ll take you both down myself.”

* * * *

Inside the library, Tristan’s eyes went first to the massive mahogany desk, half expecting to find it still buried beneath sliding, sloppy piles of his father’s books and papers. But the desktop was empty save for a neat stack of baize-covered volumes: account books, presumably left for his review. No doubt they contained ample proof that Hawesdale got on very well without him.

Just now, however, the thought provided little comfort. What if his mysterious adversary succeeded in exposing him and he were forced to abandon necessary work for…this? He looked around the library, at the comfortable furnishings, the artwork, the walls lined with books. A very pleasant sort of prison, but a prison, nonetheless.

Vivi snatched a volume from a nearby shelf and threw herself into an oversized, high-backed chair near the fireplace. “What suits you, Miss Burke?” he asked, turning toward his guest. “A tale of romance or adventure? Something to dispel the clouds?”

Her eyes wandered to the window and she watched the rain fall for a moment. “Will it work, do you suppose?”

Years of training and the exigencies of war had taught him how to cordon off his emotions, his fears, when necessary. He had almost forgotten the strength of their teeth and claws, their ability to drag a person down. Erica was worried. If he asked, she would likely confess to worrying for her sister. Was she in fact afraid for herself?

Afraid of being caught?

She still carried her journal, along with the pencils, the pens, and the ink she had acquired. When he held out his hand, she carefully extracted the writing implements and gave them to him one by one. Everything but the journal, which she kept clutched to her chest.

Relieved of most of her burden, she turned toward the nearest bookcase. After studying the shelves for a moment, she said, “It would appear that your father stocked his library on somewhat different principles from my own.”

“You may find little other than history books and Arthurian legends lining the shelves,” he warned. Almost certainly, unless Davies or someone else had been charged with ensuring the collection contained the essential works of the age.

“I am the last person to fault a gentleman for having a hobbyhorse.” Her eyes continued to scan the titles. “If my own father had not been somewhat single-minded, where would I be?”

Not here.

Such an outcome would have been infinitely preferable to the current state of affairs, of course. Still, he found himself oddly glad that some Irishman had chosen to pass down his peculiarities to his daughter and inspired her interest in the flora of the British Isles. Unless it was her brothers’ radical politics that had brought her here, instead…

He allowed himself a moment to watch her. Her gaze traveled without apparent rhyme or reason from one shelf to another, and he wondered whether it was her mind or the bookcase that was haphazardly organized. For a spy, she was remarkably open about her foibles. The only thing she seemed to guard was that damn journal.

Or was her behavior a ruse, an attempt to exploit his sympathies, to lure him into a trap and steal his secrets? But surely if that were the case, she would have been given information about him, his preferences, his…weaknesses. Even the best agents had them. Who, knowing his love of order and precision, his reputation for cool detachment, would have sent this fire-haired woman into his life and given her orders to make messes, speak wildly, act erratically?

Except…it had worked, hadn’t it? She had caught his notice, all right, just as Guin had said. Even now, in his memory, he could see the spark of determination and defiance in her eyes. He could also see her dressing gown slip from her shoulder and the temptations it had revealed. He crossed to the window and leaned his forehead against the pane under the pretense of surveying the park, hoping the chill of the glass would drive away his fever. Never before in his career had he let desire cloud his judgment. If it had been just physical desire, he could have managed to ease it. But this was something deeper. Something more. Everything she said or did was unexpected. Unpredictable.

And for the first time in years, he found himself drawn to the element of surprise.

Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of a book being pulled from the shelf. He turned back and saw Erica carrying a heavy volume toward the sofa near where Vivi sat. Telling himself this was just the sort of opportunity he had sought, he followed her there.

“Have you found something to your liking, Miss Burke?”

For answer, she showed him the cover of the book, where Introduction to Botany was stamped in fading, leaf-twined letters, the gilt long since worn away. “It’s an older text. From 1760 or so. Still, it suggests someone at Hawesdale must have had an interest in plants.”

He held his breath until he could be certain it would be under his control when at last he released it. “My mother loved a garden.”

And a gardener.

That damning voice inside his head spoke in the broad Yorkshire accent of Hawesdale’s late cook. Good God, he had no proof that the accusation was even true, yet he’d been repeating it to himself for twenty years.

Or was the diffidence and insolence with which the servants of Hawesdale treated him now a kind of proof?

“Botany?” Vivi’s face appeared around the wing of her chair, glowing with curiosity. “Miss Chatham says that’s not a proper subject for young ladies.”

“Viv,” he said warningly. “Miss Burke is a botanist.”

“Oh.” Vivi considered this revelation. “Will you teach me?” Her governess’ disapproval was evidently a greater lure than a ringing endorsement would have been.

“But your brother promised you a reprieve from your lessons, Lady Viviane.” Erica rose, book in hand, clearly poised to put an end to the discussion.

Tristan stood too. Vivi had provided the perfect excuse for him to get even closer to Erica. “I did. But Viviane has always been an eager learner. And I had not considered the unique opportunity of which I might be depriving her.”