The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(85)

“An entire contingent of Scotland Yard bruisers couldn’t overwhelm us,” Dorian soothed from over his shoulder. “They’d have to bring an army.”

“And we’d see the army coming and make our getaway,” Ash amended, pressing a kiss to the wrinkles of worry on her forehead. “Come now, all is well. Let us rid ourselves of this nuisance and be about our day, shall we? We’ve treasure to hunt.”

“Count me out,” Moncrieff growled, swiping the entire decanter from the sideboard. “I’d rather lick bog mud from the devil’s twat than share a room with a member of the London Metropolitan Police.”

“Can’t say as I blame you,” Blackwell told his retreating back before turning to Ash. “I don’t think he’s overfond of me.”

“He loves none so much as himself.” Ash stared after Moncrieff until he disappeared up the back stairs. “Though I suppose I should remind him of his place.”

“Perhaps you should, instead, assure him that his place at your side isn’t threatened,” Lorelai suggested, casting a surreptitious glance at his new coconspirator.

“A wise woman, your wife,” Blackwell approved.

Ash glanced down at her, enjoying the way her small hand felt in his as he tucked her against him and sojourned the long marble hall from the library to the front parlor.

A part of him had expected an army. Or the fall of an executioner’s ax upon entering. Maybe even the devil come to call him home. Because today he’d awoken with an angel in his arms. Her soft curls draped over his torso in a waterfall of spun gold. Her breath warming him and her lashes fluttering against his chest as she slumbered.

For the first time in twenty years, he’d felt settled. No, more than that.

He’d felt as if he’d come home.

Even when her head had rolled to his shoulder, and eventually blocked the feeling in his arm, he found he’d rather chew off the limb than disturb her.

Instead, he navigated the downy curve of her cheek, and the slope of her patrician nose, the peachy fullness of her generous mouth.

Generous, in every possible sense of the word.

He’d found grace in that moment. True enjoyment.

Dare he say … happiness?

So, he’d approached the rest of the day with a sense of caution. Contentment led to complacency, and that was a condition of which to be wary.

Which was why he advanced on the parlor expecting the absolute worst.

Only one man awaited him, however, surrounded by arabesque wallpaper and anachronistic objets d’art acquired by generations of deceased Weatherstokes.

One lean, elegant male with golden hair and eyes the color of the Adriatic Sea. He wore his affability like armor. His handsomeness was approachable, his strength politely contained within a lean-cut jacket patently crafted to make him appear less threatening.

Ash’s heartbeat erupted into hundreds, imprisoning both his boots to the ground. His chest filled with rocks and his mouth with sand, weighing him down with an almost bone-crushing sense of impending doom.

An abrupt and absurd image transposed upon the man … Nordic features smeared with grime. Sharp incisors bared in a snarl as sharper fists flew. Hidden blades. Lock picks. Patchwork clothing. He was a … cutter? Strange word … A dead eye.

Had they met before?

He flinched as the sound of shattering glass echoed in his head. Shattering glass, and the crunch of bone. And … blood?

So much blood.

That infernal ax came back to pick at the nerves behind his own eye as he swung his gaze to look at Blackwell, who regarded the man with a friendly sort of recognition.

“Chief Inspector Morley.” Blackwell strode forward and exchanged a familiar but wary handshake with the man. “May I introduce my longtime friends Their Graces, Ash and Lorelai Weatherstoke, Duke and Duchess of Castel Domenico. The Comte and Comtesse de Lyon et de Verdun. Though, on English soil, I suppose they’re most lately the Earl and Countess of Southbourne.” He swung his arm expansively at them. “Your Graces, this is Sir Carlton Morley, chief inspector of the London Metropolitan Police.”

Ash fought the overwhelming urge to press his fingers to his throbbing temples, keenly aware of Lorelai’s reassuring squeeze on his arm.

He almost missed the way the inspector’s hand went loose in Blackwell’s grip. Virtually as slack as his angular jaw as he stared at Ash as though he’d been cuffed in the mouth by a ghost.

“Dorian…”

“Are we finally on unofficial terms, Inspector Morley?” Blackwell smirked. “I’m not certain I’m comfortable sharing the intimacy of first names with you just yet.”

Ash’s brows drew together as he studied the pair. They’d an obvious past, one not unoccupied by enmity.

Without warning, the inspector’s composure completely splintered, and he struck Blackwell in the nose with one lightning-fast jab, causing the Blackheart of Ben More to stumble back several steps. “All this time!” Morley bellowed. “All this time you lived as him. You let the world think he was dead!”

The pain in Ash’s head intensified. His missing seventeen years pounded on the inside of his skull with a sledgehammer. The world beneath his feet became as unsteady as his ship when tossed about in a storm, and he fought the urge to grasp onto the high back of a chair to acquire stability.