Prologue

The new—andsomewhat resigned—Duke of Stroken smiled when he saw the return address on the next piece of correspondence. Peasgoode. Unlikely to be good news, but hearing from his friends in the north always brought him joy.

And Thorne—which is what the Duke’s friends still called him—had quite a lot of friends. He was good at making friends.

About all ye’re good at.

Ignoring the ornate letter opening knife, engraved with the Stroken seal, he slit the envelope open with his finger and pulled out the letter. Sitting back in the ducal chair behind the ducal desk in the ducal study, Thorne resisted the urge to stack his mere-viscounty boots atop the rest of the correspondence. Ye’re a duke now. Start acting like one.

Griffin’s letter read as if the man was pissed off at the world, which he likely was.

Thorne,

I’ve been overruled. A fooking duke, now, and I can’t even control my family? Apparently I don’t even get a vote. Flick insists on bringing the children to London, something about new school books and hats and Bull needs a waistcoat. A waistcoat? Jesus, there’s waistcoats in Edinburgh, aye?

I told her it wasn’t safe, and I couldn’t leave Peasgoode for a fortnight, but she’s good at getting her way.

Don’t ever fall in love, Thorne. You hand over your ballocks and apparently along with them your ability to say no.

Of course, there are compensations.

The door opened silently but Thorne was already looking up from the letter. Apparently after a decade of staying alive in the darkest alleys on the bloodiest missions, a few months as a reluctant duke hadn’t dulled his senses.

He didn’t recognize the young man who backed through the door, carrying a tray, but the realization didn’t alarm Thorne; no, he was too busy looking at that arse.

Titsworth, the butler, had outfitted the footmen in smart jackets which were cut trim, and this particular footman had all sorts of interesting things to show off. Allowing the letter to dangle from his fingers, Thorne smiled at the young man, who looked about eighteen or nineteen.

When he looked up and met Thorne’s gaze, the footman started, obviously not expecting the Duke to be watching him.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Mr. Titsworth sent me in here to refill your decanters.” He nodded down at the bottles he balanced on the tray—Thorne’s favorite whisky.

“Then by all means, have at it,” Thorne murmured, amused at both the lad’s flat American accent and how flustered he was. “Dinnae let me stand in yer way.”

The young man was positively adorable when he flushed like that, his skin darkening to almost the same color as his auburn curls, which he’d appeared to have attempted to pull back into a queue. Little wisps framed his face, making him appear almost pretty.

As the footman bustled toward the decanter, Thorne shook himself from his rather blatant admiration and dropped his eyes to Griffin’s words once more.

So this is me, placing my family in your hands and making them your problem. Bull especially, because the little shite is good at getting into trouble. Rourke mentioned he’d be coming to Town as well, so if he gets there before me, he can deal with his brother…but until one of us arrives, please keep him safe.

Keep them all safe.

Damnation, why haven’t we closed the trap on Blackrose yet? None of us will breathe easier—much less allow our families to walk freely—until that bastard has paid.

Wasn’t that the truth? And Griffin was right: why hadn’t they caught Blackrose yet?

Because Thorne hadn’t figured out how to set the damned trap yet.

It was his fault, his alone, that they still hadn’t finished off the bastard, and he knew it.

Exhaling, Thorne’s gaze wandered to where the footman was finishing his task, bent over the whisky cart. That arse really was lovely, wasn’t it? Not too round, but a bit of a handful. Just enough.

Thorne’s lips curled again as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk and enjoying the view. He had a bit of a reputation—more than a bit, if ye’re being honest—with the ladies, but he wasn’t discriminatory when it came to pleasure. He was an equal opportunities lover. His time at university had taught him there was all sorts of fun to be had out there, no matter what equipment you had to work with.

He wondered if this footman would be interested in a bit of said…fun.

Fooking the help when ye were a viscount was one thing, but ye’re a Duke now. Ye cannae make the offer, because the puir bloke would think it was a requisite of the job.

He had no interest in an obligation fook. Sighing, Thorne turned back to the letter.

Let me know if this isn’t feasible. In fact, if you wrote back and told me to tell Flick that it was raining frogs in London, or there was another outbreak of the plague, or the French were invading, I would send you a case of Peasgoode’s finest wine. Barring that, just keep them safe for me, aye?

The letter was signed “Griffin Calderbank,” and then, in a different ink, clearly hastily added after by someone who wasn’t yet used to the title, “Duke of Peasgoode.”

Griffin hadn’t expected to inherit the title last summer, but apparently the man was settling into the role. Thorne himself had known, three years ago upon his cousin’s death, that he would eventually become the next Duke of Stroken.

It hadn’t made the transition any easier.

Well, the least he could do was assure Griffin that if he couldn’t talk his wife and children out of a London trip, Thorne could ensure their safety.

Of course, if young Bull was involved, perhaps it was everyone else’s safety they needed to worry about. Maybe London ought to be evacuated.

As he reached for a blank sheet, Thorne saw the young footman straighten and their gazes met once more. The youth had pale eyes and when he flushed again, Thorne had to smile.

“All done?”

“Yessir! I mean, Your Grace, sir.” The young man’s gaze was locked on a spot over Thorne’s shoulder.

Thorne’s grin grew. “American, aye? What’s yer name?”

The lad gaped. Apparently Titsworth’s new employee orientation had failed to go over What to do if the Duke tries to make conversation.

“It’s no’ that hard of a question, man.” Thorne sat back in the chair and tried not to smirk. “Yer name. What is it?”

“Pastorino, sir. Your Grace,” the young man hastily corrected.

“Pastorino, that’s a mouthful, eh?” Thorne couldn’t help it; he was teasing the footman just to spark that glorious blush again. “That’s no’ what yer mam calls ye.”

To his surprise, this time Pastorino didn’t blush, but instead his gaze shot right to Thorne’s and his cheeks paled. “N-No, si—Your Grace. Kit. Kit’s my—my name.”

“Kit Pastorino,” Thorne mused, studying the high cheekbones and strong jaw. “I ken that name.”

Was it possible the young man paled even further? Damn, there was teasing, and there was mocking. It was a delicate line to dance with a stranger.

Thorne hastened to reassure him. “Nothing bad. Titsworth mentioned he hired ye last week, and yer talent with a violin. Says ye keep them all entertained belowstairs.”

Kit—because really, Thorne had no interest in calling him Pastorino—seemed to relax as he exhaled, and met Thorne’s gaze once more. “Yessir—Your Grace.” It really was adorable, the way he couldn’t seem to recall the proper form of address, wasn’t it? “I needed time to practice, and Mr. Titsworth said I could play for them.”

Thorne studied the footman thoughtfully. He was well-kitted-out—shined shoes, neatly tied neckcloth, hair as contained as possible when it was clear the auburn curls didn’t like being contained. It wasn’t in the new Duke of Stroken’s character to be so…so tidy. Easy enough when there was a valet to improve him, but as he’d been without one for weeks…

Could the man before him make anyone that neat?

“I enjoy classical music, Kit,” Thorne finally said. “In fact, it’s one of my joys, when I’m permitted freedom from the responsibilities of this place.” He gestured around the study. “Might I request a private concert?”

The lad blanched again. “Sir?”

“Nothing formal,” Thorne assured him. “Perhaps tomorrow morning? Just show up here with yer violin, and ye can—och, I dinnae ken—serenade? Is that the word? Serenade me while I dig through the latest pile of nonsense.” He smacked the back of his hand against the tottering pile of correspondence. “I’ve been considering purchasing one of Edison’s phonographs, but havenae gotten around to it. Having a personal violinist sounds even better. Much more ducal.”

The footman stared at him, eyes wide. Were they gray in hue? Or a pale blue? Finally, he blinked, then swallowed and shook his head. “You want me to perform for you, Your Grace?”

Well that had all sorts of interesting connotations, didn’t it? Thorne normally would have no trouble turning “perform” into three or four innuendos, but Kit was staring at him with something akin to terror.

Terror. Well, he was pretty dangerous in a tight spot, but he wasn’t serving his country now. He was battling correspondence. And flirting.

Thorne shrugged, suddenly uncertain. “Aye? If it’s no’ too much trouble?”

“No sir—I mean, sorry, Your Grace. I’ll have to ask Mr. Titsworth, as my normal duties—”

“Och, dinnae fash, laddie!” Thorne sat forward once more, suddenly buoyed. “I’m the Duke around these parts, after all, no’ Titsworth! If I want to listen to ye play all morning, I can do that. And…” Once more, he eyed the lad’s suit. “Did ye dress yerself this morning?”

This skittish footman of his paled once more. Perhaps he wasn’t used to his employers asking such personal questions. “S-Sir?”

“Yer neckcloth. Did ye tie it yerself? Do up all yer buttons? Shine yer shoes?”

Kit glanced down at himself, then moved the empty tray in front of his hips, as if he needed a shield. “Yessir. Your Grace sir. Who…who else would do it for me?”

Thorne grinned. “Who else, indeed? Well, I cannae seem to keep a valet alive for luck or money, Kit Pastorino, and if I’m going to be dragging ye away from yer footmanning duties—footmannish? Footing? Whatever. I might as well do it because ye’ve been given a new position.”

It was clear the lad wasn’t following. “Position, sir? Playing violin?”

“Valet, Kit!” Thorne boomed, smiling. “Try to keep up! Ye’re my new valet!”