Chapter 23

23

The early morning light did little to penetrate the heavy mist that clung to the London streets. Julian stared out of his study window, hands clasped behind his back. Restlessness clawed beneath his skin, fraying what remained of his control.

I’ve never been with anyone else – just you.

God, but Caroline’s whispered confession the night before had wrecked him. How long had he stared at her paintings from afar and imagined her finding pleasure in another man’s arms? Thought that if he saw her again, he would find their marks etched into her flesh?

But she had stayed his, waiting among the ruins they had made. After everything they’d endured. Everything he’d done.

Emotions strained against the ruthless composure he wore like armour. He’d come too close to losing her again, and there were still threats lurking. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – risk Caroline’s safety. Not when they’d only just begun piecing their broken marriage back together.

A quiet rap on the door jolted Julian to the present. His butler glided into the study. “Mr Wentworth is here to see you, Your Grace. Shall I show him in?”

Julian gave a curt nod, reining in his unruly thoughts and donning the remote mask of the Duke of Hastings once more.

A moment later, Wentworth strode in with a leather satchel beneath one arm, his features etched deep with hollows that had not been there the day before. Dark circles ringed his eyes – proof of little sleep.

“Apologies for the early intrusion,” Wentworth said in greeting. He looked like a man on the ragged edge of exhaustion and temper. “You’re looking better than you were at Charing Cross.”

“I should hope so.” An understatement, considering Julian had nearly had his brains splattered across the train platform.

Wentworth held up a slip of paper between his fingers. “This arrived an hour ago by private courier. Addressed to you, not even coded. A personal bloody love note addressed to you from our bomber.” He slapped it down on Julian’s desk. “The bastard was watching us at Charing Cross, and now he knows the Duke of Hastings decoded his deranged letters. Apparently, you’ve impressed him.”

Julian tensed. If Edgar Kellerman was sending these vile missives, the man now knew he and Caroline had attended that sham investment party under false pretences.

“Anything else?” he asked. “Beyond gloating at evading capture, I mean?”

“Says he looks forward to your next meeting.” Wentworth’s jaw hardened. “The implications being he has plans involving you.”

“Wonderful,” Julian said dryly. “I’d ask if you want tea, but I suspect a brandy might be in order.”

“Double. I’ve been awake for thirty-six hours questioning our man from the tracks.”

Julian poured him two fingers of brandy, and Wentworth took a bracing gulp. Clearly, they were both barely clinging to civility today.

He glanced at the abraded and bloody knuckles Wentworth hadn’t even attempted to hide. “I see interrogation went about as well as expected. Did he tell you anything?”

They were interrupted by a creak outside the study. Familiar footsteps padded closer before Caroline appeared in the doorway. His duchess wore a pretty muslin day dress, her blonde hair falling around her shoulders in messy waves that spoke of recent activities best kept private. She practically radiated sensual contentment, the subtle glow on her skin making it impossible to look away. He knew that beneath the neck of that dress, he’d left marks all over her body.

Get it together, man. Wentworth’s still in the bloody room.

“I hope I’m not intruding.” Caroline’s voice emerged rough around the edges, smoke and silk that stroked over his skin. “The maid said we had an unexpected guest.”

Wentworth stood from his chair, inclining his head in polite greeting. “Good morning, duchess.” He took her hand and kissed the air over her knuckles. “Forgive the early intrusion.”

“How kind of you to say,” she said. “But I rather suspect you didn’t come calling at this hour for pleasantries.”

Amusement flickered over Wentworth’s features. “I’m afraid not.” He made no move to speak.

Julian sat back in his chair. “I feel obliged to remind you that without my wife’s invaluable assistance, you would have more dead aristocrats on your hands and no one in custody. So if you’ve come to talk business, say it in front of her.”

Wentworth returned to the wing chair, every line of his body betraying bone-deep exhaustion beneath the veneer of crisp efficiency. “Duly noted. My apologies, duchess. It’s not personal. I’m afraid we’ve had another development related to the train station incident that requires discreet handling.”

“I see.” Caroline crossed the room and perched on the arm of Julian’s chair. He had to lock every muscle to keep from tugging her onto his lap. “Must be imperative if you’re here before breakfast.”

“The bomber made contact expressing… let’s call it admiration of Hasting’s skills decrypting his codes at the train station.”

“How flattering,” Caroline said. “Murderous villains everywhere salute my husband’s intellect. Because, of course, he solved the missive all on his own, with no help whatsoever.”

Wentworth smiled at that. “Well, now he thinks the Duke of Hastings has accepted the gauntlet thrown down.”

Julian couldn’t stop himself from brushing his thumb over the back of Caroline’s hand in a tender caress. “The interrogation, Wentworth.”

“Got him to admit the identity of the man who hired him before he choked on his own blood. Beg pardon, duchess.” Wentworth flashed Caroline a wry smile before continuing. “He described the man who hired him as ‘a tall gent with dark hair and moustache, dressed in fine broadcloth and money to burn.’ Paid him three hundred quid up front to sabotage the train. Used the name William Bell.” Wentworth leaned forward, keen eyes fixed on Julian. “I know that look, Hastings. What are you keeping from me?”

Julian’s jaw tightened. “I don’t believe William Bell is real. You should investigate Edgar Kellerman.”

The other man’s expression remained neutral, but Julian glimpsed the sharpening of interest in his gaze. “The financier hosting lavish parties all over town? Popular fellow these days. What makes you suspect him?”

“A hunch. I’ve observed some inconsistencies that don’t sit well with me.”

The spymaster tapped out a rhythm against his chair. “A hunch and inconsistencies hardly constitute evidence worthy of the Queen’s Bench, duke.”

Julian forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath. “Then humour me. Discreetly look into his affairs here in London. I’m not asking you to arrest the man outright. Just apply that relentless tenacity of yours.”

“I’ll consider it.” Wentworth looked up at Caroline. “Duchess, your input?” He sipped his brandy, watching her with interest.

“Hastings and I attended one of Mr Kellerman’s parties, and it struck me that if an outsider wanted access to the movements of the ton , being a financier is the perfect disguise. Not to mention the gossip he’d overhear. The ladies mentioned he’d appeared in society just last year after some time abroad. No one knows anything about his origins.”

“Cleverly reasoned,” Wentworth said with an approving nod.

“He wears a signet ring,” Julian said, plucking the drawing out of a drawer. He passed it to Wentworth. “Does that motif strike you as familiar?”

Wentworth examined the image. “This is incomplete?”

“I didn’t get the best look at it.”

“It’s familiar,” Wentworth said. “You think Edgar Kellerman is another alias, like William Bell?”

“Yes,” Julian said. “Look into the backgrounds of the noblemen targeted so far and see if they have any unusual connections in common.”

Wentworth gave a curt nod. “As you say. I’ll make some quiet inquiries.” With a hint of wryness, he added, “My talents do extend beyond shooting and skull cracking, believe it or not. On occasion.” He cleared his throat. “But I’ve another matter to discuss. You both should brace for rather intense public scrutiny in the coming days. Word came this morning that Her Majesty wishes to honour the pair of you for services after the theatre bombing. You ought to receive an invitation today.”

“You can’t be serious,” Julian bit out.

“Oh, she’s quite adamant. The queen loves a dramatic tale of courage and sacrifice.” Wentworth gave an apologetic grimace. “Saving your duchess from the blast, tending the wounded, tracking down the culprit – it has all the makings of high drama.”

Julian and Caroline exchanged a look. The gossipmongers at the theatre had been bad enough, but a royal ball was the equivalent of a wolf’s den – yet refusing the invitation was unthinkable. No matter how graciously worded, the queen’s requests were commands to be obeyed.

“Is that wise?” Caroline asked Wentworth. “After the bombing?”

The spymaster took another swallow of brandy. “No. But if you’ve a mind to tell Her Majesty so, I wish you the very best of luck. But it might be wise if you both pretended to go on as normal so Kellerman doesn’t catch the scent.”

“We’ll go,” Julian said with a sigh.

He escorted Wentworth out shortly after, then prowled back to the study doorway, where Caroline waited. Taking in his coiled frame as if she could read his thoughts.

Perhaps she could.

Julian tangled his hands into her hair, pressing his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss. She moaned into his lips, “Are you worried about—”

“Not now.” His voice was rough as he backed her against his desk.

Caroline gasped as the edge of the desk dug into her lower back. “But—”

He turned to nuzzle her cheek, breathing in her familiar scent. “On the desk, duchess. I don’t want to think about anything except you right now.”