Lady Windermere's Lover by Miranda Neville

while he still believed it, he also remembered Julian’s genuine passion for great works of art. Somehow he felt his actions now—his attempt to manipulate Denford to his will—had a grubbiness about them.
    But it wasn’t just his own future in the government that was at stake. It was the good of the nation.
    “So you admit that you have the collection?”
    “I admit nothing.”
    And yet he had referred to a Raphael Madonna, and the Marquis de Falleron had possessed a famous one. It didn’t prove that Denford owned the collection, but Damian was beginning to be convinced that he did. He felt the pricking under the skin that told him he was on the right scent.
    He settled back in his chair, sipped his brandy, and smiled faintly. “I remember your excitement that evening at the Hôtel Falleron. You’re the expert, but I believe it is unusual for a collection of that size and importance to vanish. Did you ever hear rumors of what became of them?”
    “Rumors are cheap.”
    He surveyed Julian through narrowed eyes. The duke was preternaturally still, his face set in stone like a medieval saint. “You were in Paris when the Terror began. I believe the marquis and his family were early victims of Madame Guillotine.”
    Had Damian not been looking he wouldn’t have spotted the infinitesimal twitch at the side of the twisted mouth, the momentary cloud in the clear blue eyes. “I left soon afterward and never knew what happened.”
    Soon after what? His wording seemed odd. Before Damian could press, Julian struck back. “I left France and returned to ‘perfidious Albion.’ You went into the right profession, Windermere.”
    Damian didn’t make the mistake of not taking the insult personally. French diplomats had long accused their British counterparts of being “perfidious” in their promises. Julian was referring to what he’d always claimed was Damian’s betrayal.
    “What some call perfidy, others regard as looking after the interests of the country.”
    Denford smiled unpleasantly. “Patriotism? On that topic I agree with Dr. Johnson. When you rejected art for the grubby contrivances of government, you fell among scoundrels.”
    “Really? I thought I was doing the opposite. Let’s not talk about old rivalries, however.” He’d gathered useful information and would like to probe for more.
    “Not old ones, no.” Julian glanced over at Cynthia, who was laughing at some idiocy of Bream’s and looked carefree and lovely. “Cynthia looks ravishing tonight.”
    The demands of diplomacy, perfidious or otherwise, were tossed aside. Sometimes plain speaking was called for. “Leave my wife out of this. Leave her alone.” His jaw clenched.
    “As you have?” Julian jeered.
    “I am home now.”
    “For how long? Will you take her with you next time you are called away on an urgent diplomatic mission?” He managed to make service to the nation sound self-serving and seedy, rather like a visit to a brothel.
    “That’s none of your affair. You should not have involved an innocent like Cynthia in our old quarrel.”
    “You believe I am using her for my own ends?”
    “Why else would you be chasing after her?” He carefully kept from letting out that he knew the pursuit had been successful.
    “You have a poor opinion of your own bride.”
    Again Damian felt shabby. And stupid. For it was rapidly bearing in on him that his lady was no longer the dull little provincial he’d married, if she ever had been. Could Julian actually be in love with her?
    A well-bred but distinct commotion arose at the card table.
    “Upon my soul,” Cousin George said. “I do believe you revoked, sir.” Apparently, Bream, not content with trumping his partner’s winners, had done the same to his opponent’s when he had no right. “You trumped my king of hearts when you still had a small heart in your hand.”
    “Really,” Bream said vaguely. “I thought hearts were trumps.”
    “Even if they were, you still have to follow