And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(87)

“Loftus knows nothing.”

Preston’s expression remained for the most part entirely bland. Save for the knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Because there is nothing to know?”

“Exactly.”

Preston snorted. “And who else suggested, besides myself, that you might be engaging in some after-hours entertainments?”

Henry cringed.

“Oh, come now, Henry. You know I’ll ferret it out of you eventually. And if I can’t, a casual, inopportune comment in Hen’s hearing will most likely—”

Good God, no! Not Hen. Preston wouldn’t dare.

Slanting a glance at the duke, Henry had his answer. Hadn’t he resorted to much the same tactic to rein in Preston’s antics from time to time?

“Miss Dale,” Henry ground out.

Preston’s eyes widened, as if he wasn’t too sure he’d heard him correctly. “Did you say—”

“Yes, I did.”

“And she thinks—”

“Yes.”

“And she said as much?”

Her words came back in haunting clarity. I would say you have done all this in preparation for an assignation tonight.

Henry nodded.

“Why that saucy, shocking little minx,” Preston said, shaking his head. “These chits from Kempton, egads, they have the most forward manners. Say whatever occurs to them.”

“Who are you to complain? You brought them into this house by agreeing to marry one of them.”

The duke grinned. “So I did.”

Henry hoped that was the end of the matter.

Of course it wasn’t. This was Preston, after all, and he was rather enjoying his new role as a reformed rake.

Rather too much.

“So who is it you are meeting—because I must say, you are going about it in all the wrong way. In over your head, if I were to judge.” Preston leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Henry took a sip of the brandy, then, remembering its potency, he set down his glass.

If he was going to muddle his way through all this, it wouldn’t help his cause to be, well, muddled.

“Come now, Henry, you’ve been as secretive as a cat of late. Haunting the post, up all night composing letters, hardly commenting when I wagered at White’s the other night—”

“I’ve had an inordinate amount of business to attend to, what with—” Henry paused. “Just a moment, you were wagering at White’s?”

“Never mind that,” Preston demurred. “I want to go back to this ‘business’ of yours. That is what you’re calling it? Business? Really, Henry, if you are going to be a Seldon, then at least you call it what it is.”

“And what is it?”

“An assignation. An affair. A mistress.” Preston grinned. And if Henry didn’t know better, he’d say it was with a bit of familial pride.

“It isn’t that at all,” Henry said, once again resorting to a solicitor’s meandering ways. “Besides, I’ve had mistresses in the past.”

Preston sighed, looking a bit bored. “Yes, but you’ve hardly ever been in a fix over one of them.”

“I am not in ‘a fix.’ ”

“So you keep saying, but let us look at the facts.” Preston held up one hand. “Late nights.” He ticked off one finger. “Haunting the salver.” Another fell. “And composing business letters that should be the domain of your secretary, but for whatever reason you are insisting on composing them yourself so they remain private.” The third finger went down, and it was as if a spark lit inside the duke as he tallied the facts at hand.

Henry watched in horror as the duke silently mouthed that last word again, as if testing it. Private.

Preston shook his head. “No. That advertisement! Oh, you didn’t?! It cannot be.”

Without a ducal glare to call upon or the practiced gambler’s instincts to help him, Henry’s expression must have given Preston every bit of confirmation he needed.

He caught Henry by the elbow and towed him to the other side of the room, well out of earshot. “Tell me you didn’t answer one of those demmed lonely hearts letters.”

Gone was the mocking light in Preston’s eyes, his larkish demeanor having fled. Panic marked his every word.

Because for all their teasing and ribbing back and forth, they were family. And they were all they had.