Chapter Ten

T he Duke of Crewe turned to greet them as they entered the drawing room. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

Jess paused beneath the power of his smile and the heated memories of last night that flooded back unbidden, only to be prodded on by Matilda. She remembered herself and curtsied when Auntie elbowed her in the ribs.

“Miss St Clair.” He bowed to Jess, then turned toward Matilda with his best charming smile. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Lucien, Duke of Crewe.”

“This is my aunt,” Jess introduced. “Miss Davidson.”

“Your Grace.” Auntie sank into a teetering curtsey so low it would have done the queen proud. So low that Lucien reached out quickly to catch her by her elbow, and Jess had to help her straighten back up.

Only then did she catch the true motive behind Matilda’s curtsey—to come closer to Lucien so she could give him a scrutinizing once-over because she’d left her lorgnette in her bedroom.

But then, Jess didn’t blame her for wanting a closer look. He appeared impossibly handsome in a cream-colored waistcoat and trousers beneath a tan kerseymere jacket and a snow white cravat so precisely knotted that she wondered if his valet had formally been a sailor. A ruby cravat pin was the only dash of bold color anywhere on him, from highly polished Hessians to the raffish way a lock of his black hair fell across his forehead. Her fingers itched to brush it back into place with his other thick curls which were slightly disheveled, as if stirred in the wind from an early morning ride.

But he hadn’t ridden over on a saddle horse. Even now, she could see through the bow window his grand town coach waiting in the street in front of their townhouse. He’d come in style, as if paying a real social call instead of…well, whatever this was.

No, she decided with consternation. The man was just naturally handsome without even having to try.

She let her gaze slowly travel back up his tall body to take stock of him once more. His large presence in their small drawing room disconcerted her. So did the gleam of amusement in his eyes and the curl of his sensuous lips at catching her staring at him.

Good Lord, she was staring ! She turned away as heat flushed her face.

“I was just admiring this piece. It’s very well done.” Lucien started the conversation by gesturing toward the painting over the fireplace. “Who is the artist?”

Matilda beamed as she darted to Jess’s side and led her forward. “Jessamyn painted that.” She practically shoved Jess toward him. “Isn’t it just lovely?”

Curiosity crossed his face. “You’re an artist?”

“An illustrator mostly,” Jess answered. When Matilda elbowed her in the ribs, she corrected, “But I do enjoy painting.”

He looked up at the work again, this time letting himself take a much more critical appraisal of it. He nodded with approval, and Jess couldn’t help feeling pride seep warmly through her.

“You should enter it into the Royal Society’s summer exhibition,” he murmured, his gaze moving slowly from the depth of the view to the cottages and red poppies in the forefront.

“I just might.”

He turned toward her, and for a moment, their eyes met. In that silent touch, she remembered the soft temptation of his mouth, the velvet purr of his voice in the darkness, the warmth of his body, the deliciously masculine scent of him… An electric spark raced through her, and she trembled in its wake.

“Jessamyn excels at botany illustrations,” Matilda gushed. “In fact, she’s creating a book of them right now.”

“Impressive,” Lucien murmured, and Jess felt her cheeks heat, although this time not from pride.

“I’m only illustrating it,” she explained. “Sir Percival Demmings is writing it.”

“Then I’ll be certain to buy a copy when it’s published.”

She couldn’t help noticing the flecks of gold that lit his otherwise dark eyes, so dark one would have been tempted to call them black over brown. Or the way his sensuous smile crinkled lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Or how firm his jaw, how strong his cheekbones. The inexplicable urge gripped her to paint his portrait.

Thankfully, Matilda had already begun to interrogate him on the last events of the season and who still remained in London. They knew very few of the same people, yet that didn’t stop Auntie from peppering him with questions about every one of them, what they were doing, and where he’d seen them.

“Auntie,” Jess said gently as she rescued him by taking Matilda by the arm and gesturing toward the settee, not that she wanted to put him at ease but because the sooner she stopped the small talk, the sooner he could come to his reason for being here. Then leave. “We’re being rude. We haven’t asked His Grace if he’d like to sit.”

“Oh! Oh yes, of course.” Matilda sank onto the settee and gestured at the chair on the other side of the low tea table. “Forgive my bad manners, Your Grace. Please sit. We’re both just so glad you’ve honored us with a visit.” She looked pointedly at Jess as she sat beside her. “Aren’t we, Jessamyn?”

She forced a tight smile. “Simply delighted beyond belief.”

Lucien’s eyes gleamed at that wholly obvious lie as he settled into the chair, which immediately looked like a dollhouse’s furnishing compared to his large frame.

“What brings you here, Your Grace?” Matilda asked pleasantly.

“Yes, what brings you here?” Jess demanded, cutting right to the crux of the matter.

Matilda laid a hand on Jess’s knee and patted it. A warning to behave.

“Not that we’re not pleased to have you visit us,” Auntie clarified. “It’s just a bit unexpected to have someone of your rank at our humble house.”

Jess bit her inner cheek at that reminder that they were far below him in rank. She didn’t need reminding that marrying him to Amanda would be an uphill battle. One she now felt oddly unsettled about, although she couldn’t have said exactly why.

“Not so humble at all,” he corrected with a glance around the drawing room. “Very welcoming and comfortable, in fact.” He smiled politely at Matilda who simply beamed at the flattery. “I am here because of what happened last night at the party.” He settled his charming smile directly on Jess. “On the terrace.”

She caught her breath. That scoundrel wouldn’t dare embarrass her like that…would he?

“I found this.” He reached into his jacket’s inner breast pocket and removed a necklace. A rose-shaped pendant decorated with chips of rubies and emeralds dangled from the end of a delicate gold chain. “It had been dropped onto the terrace. I wanted to return it to Miss St Claire as soon as possible, certain she was missing it and worried about its whereabouts.”

Oh, that cunning rascal! The necklace wasn’t hers, and he bloody well knew it…although why he knew it—because he’d had his mouth on her throat and so knew she’d been wearing only simple pearls—wasn’t something she could utter aloud.

“How thoughtful of you,” Jess said instead, her voice overly saccharine. “But that’s not my necklace. Someone else must have lost it.”

Most likely he kept a crate of them beside his bed as gratitude gifts for the women who constantly found themselves between his sheets.

Jealousy pricked her at such a thought and surprised the daylights out of her. She wasn’t jealous of the women he associated with. Certainly not! He meant nothing to her. She was simply irritated that he thought women could be so easily manipulated, and she had not been in enough situations with men to be able to distinguish jealousy from irritation.

Yes! She was confused, that was all. She certainly wasn’t attracted to him.

“Are you certain?” He tempted her to take it by leaning across the tea table and holding it toward her. “It’s beautiful…like you.”

She wanted to strangle him with it! She forced a laugh. “Did you inherit your charm with the dukedom, or did you have to go to university to learn that?”

“Jessamyn!” Matilda scolded beneath her breath.

“Purely self-taught, I assure you,” he answered, his voice colored with amusement.

Matilda fidgeted in her seat. She wanted Jess to apologize, Jess knew. But people in hell wanted ice water, and they weren’t going to get that, either. Lucien would have to wait a long, long time before she apologized to him.

Apologize…ha! If anything, he owed her the apology.

“It isn’t my necklace, Your Grace,” Jess said. “I wore pearls last night.” And you know it, too! “But my! The good deed you’re doing by attempting to return it. Someone might think you’re changing your ways and that your blackness is fading.”

Auntie elbowed her.

Jess slid her an aggravated glance.

He chuckled and returned the necklace to his pocket. “My reputation is safe, Miss St Clair.”

“Is it?”

Auntie elbowed her again.

Jess winced. At this rate, she’d be so black and blue that her corset could never be tied tightly again.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Simms carried in the refreshments tray.

“Oh, the tea!” Matilda let out a long sigh of relief and deflated against the back of the settee. “Thank goodness.”

The tea had come so quickly that Jess doubted the leaves had steeped at all. No matter. She didn’t care if Lucien was given proper refreshments or not. It would give her something on which to focus her attention instead of staring at him and something to do with her hands so she wouldn’t slap him.

“Thank you, Simms.” Jess directed the butler to set the tray down on the low table. She sat forward and reached for a cup and saucer. “Shall I pour?” Not awaiting an answer, she filled a cup and handed it to Matilda. “Auntie?”

Matilda received it, careful not to spill a drop on the settee. Like the house, the furniture was also rented and only theirs until the end of the year, when they would have to decide whether to extend their stay or move into new accommodations. The decision rested firmly on Amanda’s situation, on whether she returned to live with them again or not…and on the callous blackguard smiling at her from across the tea table who didn’t seem to have a scrap of honor anywhere in his tall, broad body.

She reached for a second cup and saucer. “Tea, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She splashed in barely a drop and held it out unceremoniously toward him with a dismissive sniff.

He took it and glanced down into the almost empty cup. The corners of his lips curled.

“Oh no!” Matilda suddenly gasped and sat forward to reach for the little sugar bowl. She removed the lid and stared into it with a fierce scowl, shaking her head and tsking her tongue. “Oh, this isn’t good,” she muttered. “Not good at all!”

“What’s the matter, Auntie?” Jess asked, concerned. It was only a tea tray, after all, not the second coming of Napoleon.

“There isn’t nearly enough sugar for us,” Matilda quickly explained. “Not nearly enough at all! What a disgrace.”

Jess leaned over. The little bowl was filled to the rim with enough sugar to bake two cakes and a batch of biscuits. “That’s more than—”

“How embarrassing! I’ll take care of it right away.” Auntie shot to her feet, which brought Lucien politely to his. “Please—stay seated, Your Grace. I’ll pop right down to the kitchen and be back before you’ve realized I’ve gone.”

She retreated toward the door and past a befuddled Simms, who didn’t know why she hadn’t simply given him the task. But Jess knew. Auntie was scheming again, and Jess would have bet her life’s savings that she would be gone for far longer than a mere pop into the kitchen.

“While I’m gone, why don’t you two have a lovely chat?” Matilda slipped into the hall, waving the sugar bowl in the doorway before she disappeared. “I’m certain you have much to discuss. Simms, come with me!”

Then the sugar bowl was gone, and Simms, looking more perplexed than Jess had ever seen the distinguished butler, followed reluctantly after.

“She’s mad, you know.” Jess let out a patient sigh as she stared out the open door after her aunt. “Mad as a March Hare.” She cocked her head and slid a glance across the table at Lucien. “But I love her anyway, most likely because of it.”

Lucien laughed softly and sank down onto the chair, then rakishly kicked out his long legs in a posture far too casual for a social call.

She couldn’t help but stare. Relaxed so leisurely like that, with his hair still slightly messed and his jacket and waistcoat a bit askew, he looked… delicious .

She cleared her throat and reached to pour herself a cup of tea. “What brings you here?” she half-demanded, wanting this farce of a social call over as soon as possible. “The real reason.”

“You wound me.” He gave a look of exaggerated anguish and placed his hand over his heart. “You think I’m here for ulterior reasons?”

“Yes.”

His eyes gleamed with amusement. “Perhaps I simply wanted to see you again.”

She laughed at the ridiculousness of that claim and lifted the teacup to her lips. “And perhaps you’ve come here because you’ve changed your mind and decided to do the honorable thing by marrying my sister?”

“Your aunt’s the mad one, not me.”

Jess narrowed her eyes to slits. “Perhaps you should leave and never—”

“Where is your sister, by the way?” he interrupted. “Why isn’t she here making my life hell herself by turning my black reputation good?”

“Amanda is in Ireland with distant family,” she told him. “She left last month.”

He nodded faintly into his teacup. “That would be about right, if she’s claiming I ruined her at the Hawthorne ball.” He drank down the splash of tea in a single swallow. “She must have been on the brink of beginning to show when she left.”

Uneasiness pricked at the backs of her knees. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know women, Jessamyn.” The look he caressed over her spun heat straight down to her core. “I know everything about them,” he murmured. “How they pour themselves into their corsets and stockings, how their bodies look beneath layers of clothing…and when wearing nothing at all.”

Jess felt as if he could see straight through her clothes. She prayed he couldn’t see the rising heat in her cheeks.

“It’s one of the benefits of being a rake.” He shrugged, remaining in his casual slump as if they were discussing nothing more scandalous than the weather. “I know women, I know their bodies, and I know exactly what causes women to become enceinte. More importantly, I know how to prevent it.” The look he gave her then was anything but casual. “And that , Jessamyn, is how I know I’m not the father of your sister’s child.”

Her cheeks flushed so intensely, she was certain they’d turned scarlet. Just as she was certain from the sparkle in his eyes that he saw it. “ I also know how babies are created,” she countered. “You can’t be certain you’re not the father, no matter how careful you were.”

“I’m always very careful. I can count at least a half-dozen ways to take pleasure in a woman and still ensure she won’t get with child. Or lose her innocence.” His sensuous lips curled with amusement. “I’d be happy to demonstrate any of them if you need proof.”

Her mouth fell open, and her suddenly blank mind whirled, unable to latch onto the burning reply his ludicrous offer deserved. All she could come up with was a muttered, “If you’re attempting to frighten me, it won’t work.”

“I’m simply stating the truth.” He sat up and leaned forward, elbows on knees. If his posture before had been devil-may-care, now he looked positively dangerous. “As I’ve told you, I know for certain I had nothing to do with putting your sister into her current circumstances.”

“And as I’ve told you , I don’t believe you.”

“Because Amanda said so.”

“Yes.”

“She’s lying.”

Jess tightened her fingers around the teacup to keep from flinging it at him. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she’s in trouble and scared, and what better person to blame than a rakehell? Not the man who truly compromised her, certainly not if she cares for him and wants to protect him.” His eyes softened. “From everything you’ve said about your sister, she would never give herself to a man she didn’t love.”

“She gave herself to you.” Her chest clenched so tightly that she forced back a wince. “Are you saying she loves you?”

“Not at all.” He laced his fingers together and lowered his voice until it was barely more than a deep purr. “What I’m saying is that she never gave herself to me.”

Jess stared at him, instantly bewildered, and repeated quietly, “I don’t believe you.”

“You should.”

She set down her unwanted tea before her shaking hands could spill it. “What proof do you have that you’re telling me the truth?”

He reached into his jacket breast pocket again. This time, it wasn’t the necklace he retrieved but a letter. He placed it on the tea table and pushed it across the smooth surface toward her.

Her eyes darted back up to his. “What is that?”

“Proof.”

This time when she looked at it, she recognized Amanda’s handwriting gracefully forming the direction on the outside of the letter.

“You know that your sister wrote to me a few weeks after the Hawthorne ball,” he explained. “You mentioned it last night.”

“Yes.” Her eyes stung as she stared at the letter. “To tell you she was with child and that she expected you to marry her.”

“No, she didn’t. That’s not what she wrote.” His expression grew sympathetic. “She wanted me to marry her to save her reputation over being caught together in the garden. There was no mention of a child.” His voice turned impossibly softer. “There couldn’t have been because we were never intimate, not in that way.”

“But I saw you with her. You were disheveled, and her skirt was—” She swallowed. Hard. Her skirt was up around her waist. But she couldn’t make herself say it.

“Yes, there were kisses and touches. But she took the lead in all of it. She wanted to seduce me, not the other way around. She invited me into the garden and beneath the bower, then lifted her own skirt.”

Jess wrapped her fingers tightly in her pelisse to keep them from shaking. “Amanda would never have done anything like that, certainly not with a rake.”

“I was surprised by it, too. But who am I to stop the advances of a pretty woman?”

She wanted to slap him. Again. “I saw the two of you together.”

“You saw me kissing her. That was all.” He shook his head. “I’m a man, and I don’t apologize for taking the pleasures she offered. But I would never have crossed any line that claimed her innocence, even if you hadn’t interrupted us. As I said, I’m always very careful. I would never put myself into the position of being trapped into marriage. Not with your sister, not with anyone.” He lowered his head, his gaze focusing on the rug. “You don’t know me very well, but please believe me, Jessamyn, when I tell you that the last thing I would do is create a child who isn’t wanted.”

Jess stared at him, too stunned to find any words to counter that. What he was saying—it couldn’t be true. It simply couldn’t be! For Amanda to have behaved as he claimed, for her to have lied about her baby’s father… impossible . Amanda had never lied to Jess before, and she would never mislead her about something this important. What Lucien was insisting was completely, utterly wrong .

She knew her sister to be a kind, generous, and sweet soul who would never wrongly and intentionally place blame on anyone.

What she knew of Lucien Grenier, however…mercenary, scapegrace, rakehell, blackguard. A man who associated with courtesans and light skirts, who spent his nights in bouts of fisticuffs or foxed to the gills.

“You’re lying,” she rasped out in a low whisper.

“Go on, then,” he urged gently, nodding toward the letter. “Read it.”

She pulled in a deep breath and snatched up the letter, unfolded it, and scanned it, prepared to point out exactly how wrong he was.

Except…she couldn’t. The words blurred before her stinging eyes until she couldn’t read the missive all the way to the end, but she didn’t have to. She’d seen enough to know he was telling the truth—about this letter at least. Not once did Amanda mention that she was with child. What she did was stress the scandalous situation they’d been found in, how the gossip would ruin her completely, and how he needed to marry her to save her reputation. There was no mention of conception in any context. Just a simple demand that he reply immediately.

Lucien had done exactly that, most likely laughing at the excessive solution she presented for a scandal which had never materialized… No .

“And here we are—more sugar!” Matilda announced brightly while still outside the room and halfway down the hall. Her shout was as good as a hue and cry in warning that she was returning. “That didn’t take too long at all.”

Jess promptly rose to her feet and shoved the letter into the pocket of her pelisse as Auntie finally entered the room.

Lucien politely rose, but his concerned eyes remained on Jess.

Matilda stopped beside the tea table and set down the sugar bowl, which to Jess seemed to be at the exact same level as before. Auntie glanced between the two of them, and her bright smile wavered but never faltered when she saw the grim expressions darkening both their faces.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important,” she said, although clearly she knew she had.

“You didn’t,” Jess answered. “We had finished our conversation.” She cleared her throat. “His Grace was just saying how he needed to be on his way, to return the necklace to Lord Fitzsimmon’s house in case its true owner came looking for it. Isn’t that so, Your Grace?”

“Yes.” Backed into a corner, he had no choice but to agree. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Davidson.” He bowed to Matilda, then to Jess. “And for the conversation, Miss St Claire.”

He took his leave, and Jess followed him politely to the door, where Simms waited with his hat and coat. Lucien took them, and Simms hurried back to the drawing room as Matilda called out for him to collect the tea things. Immediately.

Jess nearly rolled her eyes. Auntie’s timing, as always, was impeccable. And utterly infuriating.

While slipping on his coat and gloves, Lucien murmured to her, “We should talk again. We still have a lot to discuss.”

Instinctively, she knew he meant far more than just her sister, and a low heat slithered down her spine. She returned in the same low voice, “I think we’ve said everything that needs to be said.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Jessamyn—”

“Here.” She reached into her pelisse pocket to retrieve the slightly crumpled letter and held it out to him, as if presenting papers of dismissal.

“All right.” He took the letter and shoved it into his coat pocket, then added in a low warning, “For now.”

He grimly sketched her a bow, then turned and left, jogging down the front two steps and across the footpath to his coach. As he bounded up into the compartment, he signaled for the coachman, who flicked the whip over the team of four horses. The impressive rig started forward, and Jess watched as it turned the corner and vanished from sight before she closed the door.

She slumped against the wall, screwed her eyes shut, and focused on steadying her breath. But it did no good. Even now she could still smell the lingering scent of him in all its deliciousness, and her racing heart simply would not calm down.

“Jessamyn!” Auntie popped her head out into the hall and craned her neck to see out the sidelights to learn if he were truly gone. “What happened? Did you two talk about Amanda? And whose necklace do you really think that is?”

Jess pushed herself away from the wall and walked down the hall past Auntie, ignoring her stream of questions, to return to the dining room. The pamphlets were waiting right where she’d left them.

She unwrapped the brown package paper and stared down at them. Courtesy of the Duke of Crewe…

What he had said about that night at the Hawthorne ball couldn’t possibly be true. For heaven’s sake, she’d seen them together with her own eyes!

No, not together . Not the way she’d heard that men and women joined bodies to procreate and share physical pleasures. What she’d seen was Amanda’s skirt around her waist, and Lucien’s hands on her hips. Exactly as he’d claimed.

But that couldn’t have been all that happened between them. Amanda was with child; there was no dissembling about that, and there was no other man who had caught Amanda’s attention. No other man who had called on her, danced with her, walked with her into the darkness… Amanda would surely have told her about any man who had. They kept nothing from each other.

Lucien Grenier, however, kept a wagonload of secrets from the world. The information in Mr. Stevenson’s letter spun through her head, along with the warning not to trust him.

Trust him? She choked back a laugh. Everything Lucien told her completely contradicted her sister’s version of events. But Amanda had never lied to her, while Lucien lied to the world. Most likely, he was lying about this, too, and the letter supported not the truth but only the version he wanted her to believe.

“She had reason not to mention she was with child in the letter,” Jess muttered to herself in Amanda’s defense. “She was probably too ashamed to admit it, knowing the scoundrel would only blame her.”

After all, hadn’t Lucien practically said that exact same thing, by claiming Amanda had been the seducer instead of the other way around?

Jess rolled her blurring eyes. Of course, he would blame her sister. Didn’t men always blame women when it came to reproduction—their fault for not conceiving, their fault for conceiving too easily? It was appalling to think how much control men had over women’s bodies. For heaven’s sake, under the law and the Church, the woman became her husband’s property in every way the moment she said “I do,” including giving him the right to beat her or imprison her.

Her head spun! Who was she supposed to believe—the sister who loved her, or the man who loved no one but himself?

She owed him nothing, certainly not an unconditional surrender. Nothing had changed, despite his visit. Amanda was still in trouble, and as far as Jess was concerned, Lucien was still the one responsible. He simply could not be trusted.

Until she learned more, though, she would at least declare a truce.

She scooped up the package of pamphlets, gave Auntie a reassuring kiss on the cheek when she passed her in the hall, and carried them into the refuge of her art studio. They would make for excellent blotting paper, and the first blot of ink went exactly where she’d hoped…on the Duke of Crewe .

*

Inside his town coach, Lucien leaned back against the squabs and let out a fierce curse.

“Went that well, did it?”

He shot a murderous glare across the compartment at Shay. “I should have shoved you into the Thames when I had the chance.”

“Missed chances can never be made up.” Shay faintly shook his head, even now careful to keep the scarred side of his face from Lucien’s view. The act had become such second nature to him that Lucien wondered if he even realized he was doing it. “Trust me on that.”

Lucien yanked off his gloves and tossed them onto the seat beside him. “What are you doing here? I distinctly remember my coach being empty when I left it.”

“I need to see Devlin, and I don’t want anyone to know. Not even his wife. You know how to find him when he’s not at Dartmoor House.”

“Yes.” Shay hadn’t yet been told about Brechenhurst and the children who found refuge there. “He runs a charity of sorts in Seven Dials and often spends his afternoons there. I’ll take you. He’s usually in the basement.”

Shay’s brow inched upward. “The basement?”

“You’ve missed a lot since the last time you were in London. You need to visit more often.”

“No. This is a one-time event.”

Disappointment clenched Lucien’s gut. He’d missed his friend since they’d parted ways on the Continent. He only hoped Shay would eventually find his way back into the world.

Lucien pounded his fist on the roof of the compartment, then called out the window to the driver, “Brechenhurst!”

“Yes, sir!” the coachman called back and turned the team down the next street, taking them east toward the city.

After a few minutes, Shay ventured, “What happened back there at the townhouse?”

“ Madness happened at the townhouse,” Lucien muttered. And he didn’t mean the aunt.

He thought he’d be able to see Jessamyn, convince her she was wrong about him, and walk out without a second thought. Instead, he’d found himself pushing down the urge to cross the drawing room to her and give her the kind of proper kiss he’d been longing to share since that moment when he’d jumped into her carriage and glimpsed the fire in her.

Christ. He’d very nearly kissed her goodbye right there at the front door!

Madness, indeed.

“Is she going to stop harassing you?”

Lucien shook his head. “Most likely not. She didn’t believe me when I tried to explain why I know for certain I’m not the father of her sister’s child.”

He rolled his eyes. Good lord. He sounded like the narrator in one of those terrible Gothic novels that were all the rage among middleclass women these days.

“But I have proof in case her sister attempts to force me into marriage,” he added.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter. Then froze.

The letter in his hand wasn’t his. Jess had given him a different one. For a moment, his dark heart assumed the worst—she’d purposefully switched letters so she could destroy it and any proof he had that her sister was lying.

No. She was sharp, but even she couldn’t have known he’d show it to her, so she wouldn’t have had a spare letter handy to switch out. She’d simply given it to him by mistake.

The handwriting was decidedly masculine. His chest clenched. Was the fierce little gel receiving love letters? Was she being courted, perhaps even had an understanding? Lucien shouldn’t have cared; she meant nothing to him except the fleeting enjoyment of a few stolen kisses. Yet jealousy squeezed his chest like a lovesick schoolboy’s.

His jaw tightened as he unfolded the letter and scanned it. His heart skipped. Not a love letter and not from a suitor. Far worse than that—

It was from an investigator, providing information about him .

“What’s that?” Shay asked.

Lucien shoved the letter back into his pocket and muttered through clenched teeth, “A declaration of war.”