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Margery, trying her best not to look at the man in question, gaped at her grandmother. She was just about to quietly berate her for her rudeness—truly, the woman had no boundaries when it came to speaking her mind—when she heard it again, an uneven thumping. Quite against her will her gaze shifted back to the man, only now noticing his limping gait and the heavy way he leaned on his cane as he walked.
How in the world had she missed the cane?
Now that she had noticed it, however, she began to see other things as well. Such as the deep scar that ran from his left ear, across his cheek, and curved down to his chin, just missing the corner of his mouth. There were other paler scars across the left side of his face as well. One dissected his eyebrow, another reached into his hairline, yet another along the line of his jaw. The man was a walking battlefield.
He cleared his throat, and she realized that he had been silently watching her reaction to him. He redirected his attention to the dowager, but not before Margery saw the wry acceptance in his eyes—eyes the very color of a stormy sky.
“So, you are the Duke of Carlisle,” her grandmother said, craning her neck to better see the man.
“I am,” he intoned. “And you are the dowager Viscountess Tesh.” His voice was dark, and deep, with a delicious timbre that was as rich and mouthwatering as the chocolate Margery drank in the morning.
“I am at that.” Gran looked the man up and down, finally coming to rest on his cane. “Though we have something in common, don’t we?” she said, tapping it with her own.
The entire room froze. Margery, stunned to her very bones, didn’t have the ability to do more than gasp. Surely the man would not take such effrontery.
To her everlasting shock, however, his lips lifted in a small smile. “That we do.” He held up the plainly carved bit of wood for her grandmother’s inspection, and pointed out a bit of dull metal just below the curved handle. “Though I doubt yours has the bullet that lamed you embedded in it.”
The dowager viscountess grinned and turned back to the duchess. “Oh, I like him, Helen. Yes, he’ll do nicely.”
As Gran turned to the room at large to make the necessary introductions, Margery was much too busy marveling at the change that came over his countenance to wonder at her grandmother’s strange comment. His smile was warm, and open, and with the endearing crookedness his scar lent it, it had her stomach fluttering in the most peculiar way. She felt light-headed and warm, as if she had imbibed too much champagne.
“And this is my granddaughter, Mrs. Margery Kitteridge.”
Margery flushed as the duke shifted his guarded gaze to her. She dipped into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace, it’s a pleasure.”
“Mrs. Kitteridge,” he said with an awkward bow.
“I hear you’re working up the nerve to take on London,” Gran said with her typical bluntness. She quirked a thumb in Margery’s direction. “My granddaughter will help you.”
As the duke’s eyes flared wide in shock, Margery gaped at her grandmother. “I’m sorry, what?” she blurted.
“Don’t saywhat, Margery, saypardon. Goodness, one would think you have no manners at all.”
Which did not help Margery’s frame of mind one bit. She frowned. “Gran, what is this about helping His Grace?”
“Oh, but didn’t I tell you?”
Which never boded well, Margery thought, feeling faintly nauseated as her grandmother looked innocently at her—or, at least, as innocent as she was capable of. Which wasn’t much.
“No,” Margery replied with a tight smile. “You did not.” And a quick glance at the duke was proof that she hadn’t bothered to tell him, either.
“I’m certain I said something about it,” Gran said in an offhand manner.
The duke spoke up then, sending an apologetic nod Margery’s way, a ruddy hue staining his cheeks, his discomfort palpable. “I assure you, I’m more than capable of making my own way.”
“Nonsense,” Gran said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You need an entrance into Synne society, and I certainly cannot provide it, dedicated as I am to making certain your mother gets the rest and relaxation she requires. No, Margery is the only one available to help you. Besides, she has promised to be indispensable to me, and, by extension, you.”
And there it was—the bit of slyness Margery had suspected was hidden beneath her grandmother’s request. She very nearly groaned.
But Gran was not done driving the nail into the coffin. “It really is the ideal plan, for you both have so much in common. Margery’s husband was killed at Waterloo, you know.”
If her grandmother had slapped her, Margery would not have been more stunned. “Gran,” she mumbled. “I’m sure His Grace doesn’t wish to hear such things.”
“And why not?” her grandmother demanded. “He was at Waterloo as well, and might have known Aaron.”
Margery sucked in a sharp breath, her gaze snagging once more on the man’s cane, seeing it in a new light. But she could not meet his eyes. It was not owing to any pity she feared might be present in his stormy gaze. What if this man had known Aaron? What if he had seen what the blackmailer claimed to have seen, thereby proving that the stories about her husband being a coward and a traitor were true?
But no, she told herself fiercely, desperately. Aaron was not a coward. It was a lie.
