Chapter Ten

The next morning, Evie and Joanna were enjoying coffee and buttered toast on the stone terrace overlooking the gardens when Evie gave a loud shriek and leapt from her chair, sending the paper she'd been reading over the edge of the balcony.

"What?" Joanna exclaimed, startled. "What is it?"

"Rosemary," said Evie, her eyes as wide as the saucers their porcelain teacups were sitting on. "It's our cousin, Rosemary. She…she's engaged."

"But that's wonderful news! Although I was not aware she was being courted by anyone. Still," Joanna took a bite of bread and then dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin, "these things can happen quite quickly. You and I should know that better than anyone. Who is she to marry? Not that I'd know him. You're much more up to date on the who's who of High Society than I am. Well? Out with it!"

"The…" Evie paused for dramatic effect. "Duke of Hanover."

"Oh. Oh. " As comprehension dawned, Joanna slowly lowered her napkin. "Are you certain?"

She gave an indelicate snort. "Am I certain? It said so in black and white! Right in the London Caller gossip column, which is never wrong. Apparently, Hanover proposed to her last night at the Marigold Ball."

"Wait." Joanna pinched the bridge of her nose. "Weren't you there?"

"No. Weston and I were supposed to go. But we had an afternoon, ah, appointment." Her cheeks pinkening, Evie glanced down at her feet. "Followed by an evening appointment. And then a late night–"

"I get the idea." Grimacing, Joanna held up her hand, palm facing outwards. "There should be a law against having to hear about the sexual practices of one's sister and half-brother. It's…icky."

"Icky?" Evie said dubiously.

"Yes. Icky."

"Why weren't you and Kincaid at the ball? Weston made sure you received invitations."

"We had to follow up on a lead for a case that we're working. Besides, you know I've never enjoyed large functions and Kincaid would rather have his tooth pulled than wear a formal dinner jacket."

"So neither of us attended."

Joanna shook her head. "It would appear not. Are you sure this gossip column contains accurate information? Maybe whoever wrote it is only speculating."

Evie gasped and put her hands on her hips. "Lady M would never speculate."

"Who is Lady M?"

"The woman who writes the gossip column."

"You don't even know her name and we're supposed to trust everything she tells us to be correct?"

"She wouldn't dare make a mistake as big as this. Just because you're a private detective now doesn't mean you need to independently verify every single source."

Joanna arched an auburn brow. "That's exactly what it means."

"Well, I am telling you that if Lady M has said that Rosemary and the Duke of Hanover are betrothed, then they are betrothed. If you want to go track down witnesses and take their statements, fine. Go ahead. But you'll just be wasting your time." On a huff of breath, Evie resumed her seat and poked at her toast, but refrained from taking another bite. With her wedding looming ever closer, she was watching how much she ate. Especially since she'd been absolutely ravenous as of late. Nerves, she assumed. "We need to decide what to do."

"About what?" With no such compunctions in regards to her eating habits, Joanna happily applied a thick layer of butter onto another piece of toast (her third, but who was counting?) and bit into it.

"Rosemary and her engagement!" Evie said in exasperation. "Haven't you been listening?"

"Why do we have to do anything? Rosemary seems like a practical person. While Hanover wouldn't have been my first choice for her, I'm sure she has her reasons for accepting his proposal."

Evie stared at her sister.

Were they even talking about the same person?

"She has a squirrel ."

"A very practical pet. Small, tidy, doesn't require a lot of care like a dog or a horse or a pig."

"Who do you know that has a pet pig?" Evie demanded.

Joanna lifted her shoulder in a careless shrug. "I am just saying, of all the animals that Rosemary could have chosen, a squirrel is hardly the worst. From everything she has said, Sir Reginald is quite well behaved."

"That may be true, but Hanover isn't. I had the opportunity to have a long conversation with him during the house party at Hawkridge Manor, and while he is admittedly handsome and charming and affable, he drinks like a fish and chases anything in a skirt." Evie sipped her coffee. "Did I ever tell you that he asked me to be his mistress?"

Joanna dropped her toast. "No you most certainly did not . Honestly, I don't know what's more shocking. The fact that you wouldn't tell me, or that you refused his offer." Her eyes narrowed. "You did refuse, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. I had my heart set on Weston by then and love makes you do stupid things, like refusing the attentions of a duke." Evie gave a long, wistful sigh. "The Duchess of Hanover does have a nice ring to it. But I'm firmly settled on being the Countess of Hawkridge."

Picking up an orange nectarine from a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table, Joanna began to peel it with quick, efficient swipes of her thumbnail. "I'm so sorry you have to be just a countess. How horrific for you."

Having grown used to her sister's jests after a lifetime of sibling sparring, Evie smiled thinly. "I am sure I'll manage. But what about Rosemary?"

"We should definitely find a way to speak to her." Joanna popped a slice of nectarine into her mouth and then drummed her fingers on the table as her brow creased in thought. "Especially given Hanover's current… entanglement ."

"You mean the murder of his mistress. He told me about that."

She nodded. "Kincaid has been working on clearing his name for some time. Almost since the day he and I met, actually. The case has been a mystery since it began, and nothing is as it seems. We've recently discovered some unnerving facts that might even place Hanover's life in danger. But since he asked Rosemary to be his wife, I'm sure she knows all about it."

The two sisters exchanged a skeptical look. Having both met Sterling, neither were confident in the duke's willingness to be forthcoming. While he presented himself as an open book on the outside, those tormented gray eyes contained more than a few secrets.

"I'll get my hat," Evie announced.

"I'll get my reticule," said Joanna.

A servant was opening the front door for them when Weston came strolling out of his study and into the foyer. Noting his fiancée's pelisse and bonnet, he notched a brow as an amused smile toyed with the corner of his mouth.

"Off to do more wedding planning?" he asked, walking up behind Evie and gently nudging her coiffure to the side so that he could place a light kiss upon the nape of her neck while Joanna mimed gagging into her glove.

"No," said Evie, glaring at her sister, "we're actually going to see Rosemary."

"Your cousin?" Weston remarked with mild surprise. "I was under the impression that Lady Ellinwood wasn't overly fond of her granddaughter's recalcitrant American relatives."

"Recalcitrant," Joanna repeated. "I like the sound of that."

Evie turned into Weston's broad chest and adjusted the lay of his four-in-hand tie. "Lady Ellinwood may not like us, but given that Rosemary is soon to outrank her, the decision on whether or not we are allowed to pay call is no longer hers to make."

"I don't understand."

"The Duke of Hanover proposed to Rosemary last night at the Marigold Ball," Joanna explained. "If Lady M is to be believed, Rosemary accepted and they are now engaged."

"The devil he did!" Weston said with such uncharacteristic virulence that both Evie and Joanna stopped and stared. A composed and oft times aloof man (unless he happened to be in the company of his recalcitrant American fiancée), the Earl of Hawkridge was rarely given to fits of emotional outburst.

"I thought Hanover was your friend," Evie ventured.

"He is." A vein pulsed on the side of Weston's temple. "But that doesn't mean I want my family eternally connected to his. Sterling is a scoundrel. He's always been a scoundrel. He'll always be a scoundrel. Which makes for an entertaining companion at the gaming hell. But not a good husband for your cousin."

"That's why we were on our way to pay her a visit and try to find out how this came to be," said Joanna, gesturing at the door. "Evie? Are you ready?"

"I'll join you outside in a moment." Evie waited until her sister had left and the door had closed to wind her arms around Weston's neck, rise up on her toes, and claim his mouth with hers in a long, slow, drugging kiss that left them both breathless and panting by the end of it.

"What was that for?" he said gruffly, tucking an ebony curl behind her ear.

"For opening your heart to me and my family. I love you, Weston Weston, and I cannot wait to marry you." She kissed him again, just a light brush of her lips across his cheek, but when she turned to follow Joanna out of the foyer, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

"We could be married by the end of the week, if you wanted." He nuzzled her neck, then slid his hand inside her pelisse to fondle her breasts. "Just say the word and I'll have a carriage readied to take us to Gretna Green."

Twisting in his arms, she poked her finger into the middle of his chest. "I am a greedy, selfish woman, Weston. I want you, and I want my big wedding, and my beautiful dress, and my white doves. I want all of it. And then I want a lifetime of happiness."

"Then that's what you shall have." A flicker of suspicion rippled across his countenance. "What doves?"

"The ones I've ordered to be released as we walk out of the village church."

"I don't recall agreeing to any doves. They're nothing more than glorified pigeons."

"They're a symbol of love and hope," she corrected. "And they'll be lovely."

"If one takes a shite on my head–"

"It wouldn't dare," she said even as a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Besides, Posy will be there, and she'll want some other animals for company."

Weston's sigh was long and suffering as he cast his gaze to the vaulted ceiling. "The things men do for love."

"I'll let you know what we find out about Rosemary and Hanover." A final kiss, and Evie hurried out the door after Joanna.

For the second time in less than a week, Sterling woke to the sound of pounding fists at his door. Grumbling and growling, he rolled out of bed, stuck a hand in the face of his apologetic valet, and marched down the stairs to tell whoever was brazen enough to come calling at the ungodly hour of half past ten in the morning that he'd see them straight to hell.

"Out of the way," he muttered at the three footmen who were physically attempting to hold the door closed while whoever was on the other side of it used Herculean strength to shove it open. "I'll take care of this."

Looking relieved, the servants moved to the side, the door slammed open, and none other than Weston and Kincaid stumbled inside, their forward momentum nearly causing them to fall onto the marble tile in a tangle of limbs while Sterling watched in cool amusement from a safe distance.

"Uncivilized louts," he remarked. "Haven't you ever heard of a calling card? Obviously your American brides are having a poor influence."

Weston regained his balance first and turned on Sterling with the cold, implacable expression of a boxer right before he stepped into the ring. While shorter by a few inches, the dark-haired earl had the muscular build of a bull and fists of iron that a man would be foolish to place himself on the other side of. "We've been friends a long time, but if you say another word about Evie ever again it will be your last."

"Duly noted." Sterling's gaze flicked to Kincaid. "What about you? Care to make any threats?"

The private detective removed his spectacles, polished them on the sleeve of his tweed jacket, and carefully placed them back on his face. "My wife is a bad influence, so I've nothing to say to that regard. We've come to discuss your sudden engagement."

His engagement.

To Rosemary.

Bollocks.

The enormity of it hadn't sunk in yet. Or maybe it had, but the weight of it had gotten lost somewhere in the bottom of the second bottle of the Duke of Clemson's excellent Kentucky bourbon.

While Rosemary had left the Marigold Ball early, Sterling remained behind to spread the good news of their pending nuptials. News that had been received with equal parts amazement, disbelief, and despair. He was even fairly certain he'd caught a bevy of debutantes and their mothers weeping behind a potted palm tree.

In hindsight, he should have retired then and there. But his mood had been high, his spirits jovial, and when Clemson and Lord Andover, an old mate from Eton, invited him to join them for a rousing night on the town, who was he to refuse?

They'd started at the Carlton Club in St. James's, a private meeting house for the conservatively minded members of Parliament (shockingly, Sterling had never been awarded a membership in his own right), and ended up at Crockford's right down the row, a gambling hell started by a common fishmonger who'd risen to prominence and obscene wealth by routinely emptying the pockets of drunk aristocrats.

Crockford had certainly lightened Sterling's coffers by a considerable amount. He wasn't even sure how much money he'd lost at the tables, or what time his valet had finally come to collet him. All he did know was that he had awoken in his own bed…and he was engaged to Rosemary. The latter of which was apparently not sitting well with either Weston or Kincaid if their stern, unforgiving expressions were any sign.

"Is this going to be an entire conversation, or can we get it over with in ten words or less?" he asked, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Because I was up late, and–"

"A conversation," Kincaid interrupted.

"A long conversation," Weston said with emphasis.

Sterling sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that. Well, come on into the drawing room and I'll ring for some food and drink. No need to be savages about it. What's your preference? Wine, whiskey, gin…"

"Coffee. Black," Weston said as he preceded Sterling into the drawing room and helped himself to a chair. "Which is exactly what you'll be having, as we need you sober for what we're about to say."

"Or at least more sober than you are now," Kincaid added before he sat down beside Weston, leaving a settee open across from them which Sterling reluctantly took even though it made him feel as if he were a young lad at school again being brought to the headmaster's office for trying to start a fire in the common area.

"Barely more than a puff of a smoke," he mumbled under his breath. "No need for so much fuss."

"What was that?" Weston asked sharply.

"Nothing." He slumped in his seat and let his head fall back until he was staring at the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. "Get on with it then. The lecture, or whatever it is you're doing here. I've more sleeping to do."

A long, terse silence, and then…

"You've fucked up, Sterling."

A humorless smile twisted Sterling's mouth as he lowered his chin to meet Weston's cool gray eyes. "Tell me something I don't know. The past six years of my life have been a combination of fuck ups. Which particular one are we discussing this morning?"

Kincaid crossed his arms. "Your proposal to Miss Stanhope."

Of all the things he'd done, all the sins he'd committed, and they were here to pester him about his one good deed? And it was good. He needed to believe that. Needed to believe he'd helped Rosemary more than he'd hurt her. Needed to believe that, for once, just once, he'd chosen the honorable path. The right path. Because of Rosemary. For Rosemary.

"What about my proposal?" he said warily.

"You never should have made it. What the devil were you thinking?" Weston asked.

Sterling scowled. "What does it matter to the two of you who I marry?"

"It wouldn't," said Kincaid.

"Except you've picked the only woman in all of England directly related to the women we have chosen to marry."

"And?" Sterling pressed.

"And as you are, you're not fit for marriage." There was no rancor in Weston's tone, which almost made it worse. "Miss Stanhope is a na?ve innocent. You're…not. In more ways than one. It isn't a suitable match."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Sterling demanded as he shot to his feet. Outside the windows, a light rain had begun to fall from a gloomy, dismal sky that was rapidly matching his mood. To think he'd actually gone to bed feeling happy for once. He should have known it wouldn't last longer than a few hours. "I am well aware that Rosemary is far better than I. But what else could I have done after Lady Navessa Betram stumbled upon us? You may not be aware, but she's quite possibly the worst gossip this side of the Thames. Had I not asked Rosemary to marry me, she would have been ruined. Would you rather public exile than marriage to a duke?"

"By God," Weston exclaimed in disbelief. "Is that what happened? You took the poor girl's virginity at a ball ?"

Sterling knew that he was far from perfect. As far as a person could probably get. But it still hurt to realize just how low of an opinion his so-called friends held of him. "No. I didn't take her virginity at a ball," he snapped. "Nor anywhere else, for that matter. Not that it's a damned bit of your concern. But I did kiss her after I tried to rescue her squirrel from a tree and–"

"You did what?" Kincaid asked politely.

"A round of fireworks went off prematurely and scared Sir Reginald. He ran up into a tree and Rosemary was attempting to retrieve him when I found her. Instead of watching her break her neck trying to balance on a bench or fall from a limb, I offered my services. Afterwards we, ah, allowed ourselves to become momentarily distracted." He stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of the dressing robe he'd thrown on before leaving his bedchamber. "Before we decided to go our separate ways, Lady Navessa spied us from the tents. A marriage proposal was the only thing I could think of in the heat of the moment to save Rosemary's reputation."

Another round of silence.

Once again, Weston was the first to break it.

"Miss Stanhope has a pet rat that she's named Sir Reginald?" he said, his brows knitting in bemusement.

Was that all they'd gotten from his long-winded explanation?

Bloody hell.

Why even bother?

"He is a red squirrel, not a rat," he said, not wanting it to get back round to Rosemary that someone had denigrated her pet and he'd not stood in Sir Reginald's defense. His bride-to-be did not anger easily–or at all, for that matter–but he knew from firsthand experience that she did bristle whenever anyone dared take aim at her beloved squirrel.

"Is there a difference?" Kincaid wondered.

"Is there a difference?" Sterling scoffed. "For your information, they're not even from the same family. Ah, here's the coffee."

As he went to the sideboard to fix himself a plate of eggs, roasted red potatoes, and a generous slab of bacon along with a steaming hot cup of coffee stirred through with cream, Weston and Kincaid gazed at each other in astonishment.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Kincaid asked in a low voice.

Weston nodded slowly. "If you're seeing that Sterling might actually love someone other than himself, then yes, I am. Who would have ever foreseen that he would ever be brought to heel, let alone by some woman with a squirrel?"

"Not me. But then I didn't see myself falling for a stubborn red-haired American, either."

Weston snorted. " No one could have seen the Thorncrofts coming."

"What are you ladies gossiping about?" Balancing his food in one hand and holding his mug of coffee in the other, Sterling started back across the drawing room, neatly sidestepping a pedestal with a marble bust of some angel or another sitting on it. He wasn't a religious man by nature–his faith had abandoned him long ago–but that hadn't stopped Sarah from buying him the bust as a Christmas present three years ago. He suspected she'd done it as a joke, even though she insisted to this day that it was a serious gift.

"We were discussing your fiancée, Miss Stanhope," Kincaid supplied.

"And the fact that you're in love with her," said Weston.

It was a testament to Sterling's quick reflexes that when the mug slipped from his hand he managed to catch it before it hit the floor.

" Hell and damnation, " he cursed when coffee sloshed over the edge and burned his fingers. Setting both the mug and plate aside on a table, he rounded on his unwanted guests with a clenched jaw and an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. "Take that back. I don't love Rosemary, and I don't want a servant to get the wrong idea and spread a rumor across town. What the devil do you think talk like that would do to my reputation?"

"There are no servants in the room," Kincaid said mildly. "Even if there were, isn't it expected that a man should love the woman he is to marry?"

"Some men, yes. But not this man. I already told you why I am marrying Rosemary. To save her from the sharp teeth of the gossip hounds. There's nothing more to it than that."

There couldn't be , he thought silently as something akin to panic skittered under his skin with tiny, prickling claws.

Love?

He didn't love Rosemary.

Hadn't he been careful to tell her as much? Hadn't he made it clear–because he didn't want to be accused of misleading her–that they weren't entering an indissoluble union so much as they were putting pen to paper on a mutually beneficial business arrangement?

She'd get to maintain her good name and become a duchess. He'd get to extricate himself from the marriage mart and trick his peers in Parliament into believing that he was fully reformed. After all, how could a man who married a wallflower be capable of violently murdering his mistress? The two things did not equate. So long as feelings didn't get in the way, it was an excellent solution to all of their problems. Honestly, he should have thought of it sooner.

"Is Miss Stanhope aware that you claim not to be in love with her?" asked Kincaid.

"I don't claim anything. I know I am not." Retrieving his coffee, he took a mindless swig. "And yes, she's very much aware, as I've done nothing to indicate otherwise. Rosemary and I have an…understanding."

Didn't they?

He was fairly certain they did.

"Then you've done this–asked her to marry you to prevent Lady Navessa's vicious tongue from spewing lies–out of the kindness of your heart," said Weston, studying him closely.

"I don't know if I'd say kindness –"

"Good on you, Sterling," Kincaid cut in. "I'm proud of you."

"I haven't done anything," he said, vaguely alarmed by the unwarranted praise. "People become engaged every day. You've both done it." He pointed at Kincaid. " You're married."

"But it's different for us." Weston rose from his chair and went to the sideboard. His back to Sterling, he poured himself a cup of coffee. "I am an earl. Kincaid isn't even titled. You'll have much larger expectations placed upon you, as will Miss Stanhope. I am glad to hear you've considered all that, and have decided to mend your ways."

"Sorry?" said Sterling, tapping his ear. "I don't think I heard you correctly. Mend my what?"

"Your ways," Weston said with the calm, dangerous pleasantness of a father who was about to give his wayward son a serious ultimatum in regards to his future inheritance. "Your excessive drinking, to begin with. Your gambling. Your fornicating with anything in a bustle. Now that you are engaged to be wed, those…activities will have to stop. Especially since you are to marry my wife's cousin."

"And mine," said Kincaid.

Weston delivered a rigid smile. "Welcome to the family."

Talk about a bloody awful welcome.

"No drinking? No gambling? No fornication? What's left to do?" Sterling said blankly.

"I am confident you'll find something." Joining Weston at the sideboard, Kincaid browsed the various plates and trays before filling a crystal bowl with freshly cut fruit. He stabbed a strawberry with a miniature silver fork and raised it to his mouth. "There's also the matter of what we discussed in regards to your pending case. Do you mind if we speak openly in front of Weston?"

Sterling gave a belligerent wave of his arm before he collapsed onto the middle of a sofa and let his head fall against the thinly padded back with a resounding thump . "Why stop now?"

In brief, practical terms, Kincaid shared with Weston what he and Joanna had already explained in great detail to Sterling. "When the blood was first discovered in Eloise's bedchamber, the natural assumption was that she'd been murdered and the body disposed of elsewhere. While never formally brought up on charges–"

"Not yet," Sterling muttered as he closed his eyes and wished desperately for a nip of gin.

"–Sterling was presumed to be the killer. A crime of passion following an argument that several servants overheard. Which was why he hired me to clear his name and find the real killer. Something that I have not been able to do, because it is my belief that Eloise isn't dead."

"Are you sure?" Weston frowned.

"Given that I have determined the blood found in the room belonged to a butchered pig, I am nearly positive."

"Then where is she?"

Sterling slanted an eye open. "That's what I asked."

"Her whereabouts are thus far unknown," Kincaid admitted. "Though we've tracked down a few leads, Eloise remains elusive. Strange, given that she is a woman without means or a fortune to use in order to remain hidden. Which leads me to my current theory: Eloise was but a pawn is a much larger, much more deceptive game." He paused, then finished grimly, "A game whose end goal is to completely destroy the Duke of Hanover."

Complete and utter silence reigned.

For all of two seconds.

"Stop laughing, Sterling," Kincaid said through gritted teeth. "This is not a time for amusement."

"Oh, but it is." Openly guffawing, Sterling slapped his knee and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. " A game whose end goal is to completely destroy the Duke of Hanover ," he quoted in a deep, mocking parody of the detective's voice. "You've obviously been reading too many of those American dime novels. How could someone want to destroy me when everyone adores me? It'd be like walking into a house party and dumping out the best bottle of champagne."

"As loath as I am to stroke his ego, Sterling has a point." Weston popped a grape into his mouth. "No one that I know holds a grudge against him and, to the best of my knowledge, his ledgers are clean at all the gambling hells."

"I pay my debts," said Sterling, sobering.

Weston nodded. "He pays his debts."

"Be that as it may, Eloise's death was staged to make it appear as if she were the victim of a violent murder." Tipping his spectacles to the edge of his nose, Kincaid scowled first at Weston and then at Sterling. "Given the timing and the location of the act, it cannot be sheer coincidence. Someone wants to cause you considerable harm, Sterling."

"Then why not just kill me?" he asked. "That would be harmful."

"I don't have the answer to that yet," Kincaid admitted. He pushed his spectacles back into place. "But I do believe that this is connected to your sister's kidnapping. Call it a hunch, or instinct, or blind intuition. Whatever you like. It doesn't change the fact that your life is most likely in danger, and not because of a trial that may or may not happen."

"How can you even be sure it really was just pig's blood?" Sterling was no expert investigator, but to him all blood–whether it be human or animal–looked exactly the same.

"Because I took a sample. And under detection of my compound microscope, the viscosity was completely different."

"What the devil is–you know what, no," he said with a grimace. "I'm sure I can live my entire life without completing that sentence." Lifting the back of his hand to his mouth, he yawned into it. "I need a nap. Which means you two need to leave. Your concern for my welfare is touching. Truly. But if someone wanted to hurt me, they're about six years too late."

"Just promise you'll be careful," Kincaid said seriously. "Don't go out alone at night, and pay attention to those around you. If there's a person who starts acting suspiciously, or you receive word from Eloise–"

"Eloise, greedy harpy that she is, probably found another benefactor and thought it would be amusing to paint me as a villain. I'm sure she is bathing naked in diamonds at the castle of some grossly rich count as we sit here bollocks in hand." Even as Sterling spoke the words aloud, he didn't really believe them. Eloise had been hotheaded, impulsive, and even malicious at times. But she wouldn't have taken on a new protector without rubbing his face in it. That would have removed all the fun.

Still, he didn't–he couldn't –honestly believe that a cloaked stranger was out there plotting some grand scheme to ruin him. No matter what evidence or instinct Kincaid had to the contrary. But he did, very much, want a nap. And so he said what his friends wanted to hear.

"All right. I'll be careful. Vigilant, even." He smiled thinly. "Every night, I shall have my valet check under the bed, and I'll hold hands with the doorman when I leave the pub. Why are you looking at each other like that?" he said when Weston and Kincaid exchanged another meaningful glance. "Stop it. Nothing good ever comes after. Not for me, at any rate."

After ingesting another grape, Weston approached him with all the stealth of a lion closing in on its prey while Kincaid kept his vantage point from the high ground. Otherwise known as the sideboard. "There are a few rules we need to set out in regards to Miss Stanhope…"