The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(55)

Relief washed through her. “Consider me corked.”

“But there’s one condition.”

Isn’t there always? She suppressed a sigh and waited.

“Received an invitation from Ransom. ’E’s throwing a masquerade in three days, and ’e wants you there. You’ll go and without a fuss. And while you’re there, you’ll make a proper go o’ it with ’Is Grace. Understand?”

She bit her lip, sliding a look at Bennett. His face betrayed little emotion, but she was reassured by the tensing of his wide shoulders.

He did care about her, he had to. He wouldn’t make love to her the way he had if he didn’t feel some affection toward her. He wouldn’t say she was adorable and call her “sprite.”

Their relationship was far from settled, but she knew they were making progress. One day, he would fall in love with her, the way she’d fallen in love with him. She trusted Bennett with all her heart: he wouldn’t stand by and watch her be married off to the duke. No, he would sweep her off into the sunset, the same way Grandpapa had done with Grandmama. She and Bennett would have a love that would endure suffering and celebrate joy and never fail.

“We got a bargain, missy?” her grandfather demanded.

Beneath the table, her fingers crossed yet again.

“Yes, Grandpapa,” she said.





19





Harry entered the De Witt townhouse.

He’d waited until the last light had winked off in the servants’ quarters before picking the lock of the back entrance. His senses on high alert, he now traversed the dark cavern of the kitchen. At a rustling sound, he tensed…relaxing as vermin scurried past.

Taking the steps up to the ground floor, he followed the arterial corridor. As he passed the shadowy entertaining rooms, he took note of the furnishings, which looked expensive and new. A pianoforte dominated the music room, a chandelier dripping crystals above it.

His jaw clenched. It would be the perfect stage for Celeste: she would appear like an angel with her pale blonde hair aglow, her long, tapered fingers gliding across the keys. For an instant, he recalled watching her play, how besotted he’d been, how he’d have given anything for the favor of her smile, and humiliation twisted his gut.

Yet a more recent memory came to him. Tessa…wreaking havoc on the violin during her lesson this afternoon. How in God’s name she’d managed to make the instrument sound like a cat in its death throes was beyond him. And, apparently, her hapless violin master.

As far as Harry was concerned, however, she had far more important skills. She was, for instance, a prodigy when it came to the love arts. The memory of her sweet passion stirred his blood. A lusty sprite, his Tessa was.

In truth, no other woman had ever aroused such desire in him, nor made him feel so desired in return. No other had made him laugh the way she did. No other had given him such light and warmth and asked for so little in return.

It made him want to offer her more. If not his heart, then at least his name. To do that, he first needed to get to the bottom of the hellfire.

He found De Witt’s study at the end of the hall. Closing the door behind him, he lit a lamp, shadows flickering over the bookcases as he headed to the large desk. He scanned the leather blotter: a tray of writing implements, green glass paperweight, and stack of correspondence. Sifting through the mail, he paused at the cream and gilt card.

An invitation to the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville’s masquerade three days hence.

The De Witts were fixtures in Society, and it wouldn’t be unusual for them to be rubbing shoulders with the crème de la crème. Yet finding a connection between Ransom and the suspect was an odd coincidence, one that didn’t sit well in Harry’s gut. For now, he tucked the fact away.

With the help of his picks, he bypassed the locks on the drawers and sorted through papers and ledgers. Nothing there. Frustrated, Harry shut the last notebook. He’d found naught of use, nothing to tie De Witt to the hellfire.

There has to be more. I know that cunning bastard is behind this. If I were him, where would I keep the evidence of my nefarious activities?

He surveyed the room for possible hiding places. Moving along the bookcase-lined wall, he removed volumes at random, rapping his knuckles against the wood. On his third try, a hollow resonance made his ears perk, his pulse accelerating. There was an empty space behind that bookcase—an antechamber, perhaps? But how to get in?

He pushed the bookshelf; it didn’t budge. Some mechanism must be locking it in place. He examined it, inch by inch, and didn’t find any hidden levers. From another room, a clock chimed midnight; he couldn’t afford to dally. As he weighed the pros and cons of removing the barrier with a mild explosive (not subtle but effective), the door opened.

He pivoted, his hand plunging into his greatcoat pocket. He whipped out his pistol, aimed it at the figure emerging through the door.

“Don’t shoot, Bennett,” came the familiar, feminine voice. “It’s me.”

“Tessa?” He stared at her trouser-clad figure in disbelief. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Shh, or you’ll wake the house.” Beneath her cap, her eyes were huge. “I’m here to help you.”

“Goddamnit.” His shock turned into pure rage. “You gave me your word that you’d stay put.”