Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(46)

“But … but the maids—”

“No one.”

“Y-yes, Your Grace.” The innkeeper bowed himself out.

Raphael waited until the door was closed and then looked at Ubertino. “I want two men at the door at all times tonight and two below the window. Two at the front of the inn and two at the back. Two more in the common room. Make sure they are rotated so that no man becomes fatigued and falls asleep. There will be no more attacks. Not with my duchess close by.”

Ubertino came to attention, his bright-blue eyes flashing. “No, Your Grace. I will see to it on my honor.”

Then he too left.

Raphael began taking off his coat. “Shall I send for a bath for you?”

“No, thank you.” Iris frowned at her husband. “You were terrible to the innkeeper. That poor man thinks that you blame him for the attack in the yard.”

She caught the silver glint of his eye as he glanced at her. “Better that than he accuse me or my men of murder.”

“But you and your men were only defending yourselves.” She wrapped her arms about her waist, remembering the horrible scene.

“Yes, but I don’t wish to have to explain that to some provincial magistrate,” he said as he sat to remove his boots. “And besides, I wanted the innkeeper out of the yard in order to give Valente a chance to search the bodies.”

“Why did you order him to do that?”

“To see if he could find any information, obviously,” her husband replied in what sounded like a very patient tone. “The man who attacked me wasn’t a common brigand.”

“Well, that much I’d gathered when you found the dolphin tattoo on his arm.” She sat in a chair across from him, watching as he shrugged out of his waistcoat. He was favoring his right shoulder again. “Who was he?”

“Lawrence Dockery.” He glanced up at her. “Judging by his red hair and the placement of his dolphin tattoo, I suspect he was the one wearing the fox mask on the night you were brought before the Lords of Chaos.”

She shuddered at the memory. “Do you think the Dionysus sent Mr. Dockery to kill you?”

“Most likely. Although …” His brows drew together, pulling at the scar on the right side of his face.

“What?”

He glanced up at her and shook his head. “It’s just that if the Dionysus did send Dockery to assassinate me, it was an uncommonly foolish move on his part.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, rising and moving toward a washstand, “I’d already overpowered the Fox easily on the night of the revelry. He wasn’t exactly a proficient assassin, even with hired bullies. And, too, there was always the chance that matters would play out exactly as they have—leading to my discovering Dockery’s identity. It gives me a way to track the Dionysus—Dockery must have some connection to him.”

He gingerly pulled his shirt over his head.

For a moment Iris was entirely distracted by the movement of the muscles across his bare back. The wings of his shoulder blades glided gracefully beneath smooth skin as he lowered his arms, and his spine made a sort of hollow in the small of his back, just where it disappeared into the waistband of his breeches. She found the entire sight unaccountably fascinating and couldn’t help but wonder if he intended to continue stripping off his clothes.

So it was a beat or two before she processed what he’d said. “That means you might be able to discover the Dionysus.”

“Perhaps.” He poured warm water into a basin. “But my visitors yesterday morning told me that the Dionysus communicated with them via letters. None of them actually knew who the man beneath the mask was.”

“Oh.” Iris slumped in her chair in disappointment.

He glanced over his shoulder at her as if he’d heard all her dismay in that one word. “I’ll still question Dockery’s friends and acquaintances once we reach London. Perhaps the Dionysus has made a mistake.”

“Mm.” She stifled a yawn against the back of her hand. It had been a long day filled with travel and too much excitement.

“You are weary,” he said in that voice like smoke. “You should prepare yourself for bed.”

She looked at him speculatively—that wide, muscled back, the stubborn set of his jaw—and thought of the argument they’d had before in the dining room. Of the words she’d meant to say to him when she’d stormed through the kitchens.

“Actually, I had something important that I wanted to discuss with you first.”

He stilled as if he knew what was coming. “What is that?”

She rose and crossed to the bed. A black banyan had been tossed across the end, and she moved it aside to reveal the sketchbook. She picked it up and opened it to the first page.

To a sketch of her.

Sleeping.

For a moment she studied the sketch. It had been done in pencil and the artist was very skilled. The single sharp line that edged her nose, the delicate shading on her bottom lip, the suggestion of light reflected off her forehead.

In the sketch she lay asleep and peaceful—and beautiful. Iris had never thought of herself as beautiful. That word was for the lauded belles of society. The women who walked into ballrooms and made conversations stop.

But in this sketch she was beautiful.