His Wicked Charm

“Maybe they wanted to make Father wait and worry, so he’d be ready to give them whatever they asked for,” Reed suggested.

“But I would have done that at once,” the duke replied.

“I don’t think they were after money.” Every head in the room turned toward Olivia at her words. “They interrogated Kyria. Twice. They were after information.”

“Interrogated you?” Rafe stiffened, looking at his wife in alarm. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing, really,” Kyria said calmly. “So you needn’t get murder in your eye. They shouted a good deal, but they didn’t physically harm me. They just kept asking about the blasted key.”

“Key? What key?” Rafe asked.

“Exactly.” Kyria gave a sharp nod. “I asked them that very thing, but they had no response except to ask me again in a louder voice.”

“Why didn’t they describe it or tell you what it was for?” Desmond asked, frowning in puzzlement.

“They just said that I knew which key they meant. The one my father gave me.”

“I gave you?” The duke’s voice rose in astonishment. “Why would I have given you a key? To what? How very odd.”

“That was my thought,” Kyria agreed.

“I don’t know anything about any key,” the duke went on. “Except for a Greek key, of course, but I wouldn’t think they were interested in ancient motifs.”

“Perhaps they meant the key to your collections room,” Bellard suggested.

“What would a gang of ruffians want with Greek and Roman pots?”

“And why would they target Kyria?” Con added. “Why would she have the key to Father’s collections room?”

“Maybe they didn’t specifically target Kyria. Maybe they were told to grab one of the women, and any of them would have done.”

“Then why didn’t they ask the rest of us about it after Kyria proved recalcitrant?” Thisbe pointed out. “That would be the logical thing to do.”

“Maybe they meant to take Emmeline,” the duke suggested. “And they grabbed the wrong redhead.”

The duchess smiled at her husband. “Dear Henry. I think even those men would have noticed that Kyria was far too young to be me.”

“One of them had the nerve to say I was too old!” Kyria said indignantly.

Her brothers laughed, and Con said, “I suppose that’s the one you wanted to bash over the head.”

“It is. I heard them arguing in the hall after the last time he questioned me. One of them said some rather uncomplimentary things about my stubbornness, and the other said he could make me talk. But then Ruffian One—the one Mother demoralized—said that no, they couldn’t hurt me. I think he had realized how much trouble they were in. That’s when Ruffian Two said I was too old. And the first one told him he was daft, and they fell into arguing over which of them was more stupid.”

“Which would, admittedly, be hard to determine,” Theo put in.

“They ended it with Ruffian Two stomping off downstairs. He was really a most obnoxious man. He kept complaining because Thisbe cracked him over the head with a parasol. I ask you, what did he think we were going to do?”

“I am sorry I broke Sabrina’s parasol, though,” Thisbe said. “It was such a pretty thing.”

“I should have taken Papa’s umbrella instead,” Kyria mused. “It’s much sturdier. Next time I’ll know better.”

Con frowned. “Wait. Kyria was carrying Sabrina’s parasol?”

“Yes, I picked it up as we left the house because I’d forgotten mine.”

“It’s a very distinctive parasol, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it has a lovely painted scene.”

“So it’s the sort of thing one might use to identify someone. And he said you were ‘too old.’ I think they took the wrong person. Maybe they meant to kidnap Sabrina.”

LILAH WENT TO bed thinking about Con’s kiss and woke up with it still on her mind. It was disturbing, even more so because it had also been so exciting. Con had a way of confusing things.

She disapproved of him. He was rash. He had the most outlandish notions. He didn’t care a whit how he appeared to others. Indeed, he seemed to delight in making a spectacle of himself. She thought of the exaggerated mustache and garish suit she had seen him wear the first time she visited Broughton House. As if that weren’t peculiar enough, he had been consorting with people who were certain the world was going to end that week.

What did it matter that he was handsome and witty or that his smile did the most peculiar things to her insides? It didn’t make him any more normal or acceptable or dependable. He was, in short, odd. Just look at his name: Constantine. It was decidedly not British.

Con liked her no more than she did him. He considered her annoying and her beliefs antiquated. They could not be around each other for two minutes without finding something upon which to disagree.

Why had he kissed her? Why had he said he admired her? He had been teasing, she supposed, playing games with her. Yet he had seemed sincere. He had looked at her in a way that stole her breath.

Lilah was not a naive girl just making her debut. She knew better than to take compliments seriously—especially not the compliments of charming men like Constantine Moreland. She had done her best to learn all there was to know about Con, and she was well aware of his reputation as an inveterate flirt. He never pursued any particular young lady, dancing with this one, flirting with that one.

That was her answer, she supposed: Con had been flirting with her, and Lilah wasn’t adept at flirting. She had taken him too seriously. Or else he had been testing her, seeing just how far he could push her sense of propriety. That was an irritating thought. Lowering, as well.

It would be better to just put him out of her mind. Especially since she had overslept and was in danger of being late to breakfast. It was always served promptly at eight o’clock. She rang for her maid and dressed quickly, doing her hair up in a simple knot. She stepped into the dining room at eight on the dot.

Uncle Horace looked up at her and smiled. “Ah, Delilah. Just in time.”

“Good morning, Uncle. Aunt Helena.” Her uncle was a good man, if somewhat rigid about his schedule. He had taken on the raising of another’s child, which could not have been an easy thing for a man who was accustomed to an orderly, childless life.

“Not much interesting in the newspaper today,” Uncle Horace announced. It was his custom to read aloud to his wife and niece the stories he deemed suitable for the delicate ears of women, placidly unaware that after he left each morning, Lilah took the newspaper and read what she wanted. “I saw Sir Jasper at the club yesterday. I think he might drop in today.”

Lilah maintained a polite expression, though inwardly she groaned. Her uncle proceeded to talk about this acquaintance and that. Aunt Helena related the elegance of Mrs. Baldwin’s gown at the musicale the night before.

“Baldwin’s a capital fellow,” Uncle Horace stated. “Though I gather their youngest boy is a bit wild. Not the sort I would allow to court you of course.” Uncle Horace patted Lilah’s hand.

“No, naturally.” Though Lilah had no desire to be courted by Terence Baldwin, finding him both a bore and a libertine, it scraped at her nerves whenever her uncle made such decisions for her. Lilah could just imagine what the duchess would say about Uncle Horace’s pronouncement. She had to bring up her handkerchief to her mouth to hide a smile.

“Your aunt tells me you had dinner with the Duke and Duchess of Broughton last night.”

“Lady Anna was kind enough to invite me to stay.” Lilah avoided a direct lie.

“You really should not have, dear,” Aunt Helena said, frowning. “Of course I could hardly refuse permission when Lady Moreland asked it, especially since she said it would please the duchess. But it’s not the way things should be done.”

Lilah felt another flash of annoyance. She was over twenty-one now; she scarcely needed her aunt’s permission to do something.

“One would think a duchess would better understand the rules of polite behavior,” Aunt Helena went on. “But then, of course, her family was only country gentry. Everyone was surprised when Broughton married her.”