Never a Gentleman by Eileen Dreyer Page B

much of a ruckus as we’ll get from Viscount Bentley when he hears about
     Evenham’s suicide, I imagine. The boy was his only heir.”
    Drake wanted to argue. Whitehall was playing right into the enemy’s hands by marginalizing Diccan Hilliard. But Drake had
     no real power there. So he would carry out his own mission and do his best to ease Diccan’s way. At least with the government.
    Thirsk was already getting to his feet.
    “If another attempt is made on Hilliard, should he allow himself to be compromised?” Drake asked, following.
    Thirsk paused, his gaze unfocused. “I hate to take the chance.”
    “They
will
go after him again. If he doesn’t seem to cooperate, he’ll be putting others in danger. Evenham said the Lions would follow
     blackmail with threats to those Hilliard loves.”
    Thirsk snorted. “Well, they’ll catch cold at that. There isn’t a soul in England who doesn’t know that his family cut him
     off.”
    “What about his wife?”
    “Difficult to threaten a man with danger to a woman he never wanted in the first place. Hell, they’d be doing him a favor.”
    “To let the Surgeon have her?”
    Thirsk actually paled. “The threat will come first. When we hear it, we can act. For now, there is a rather troublesome German
     princeling we’re depending on for port rights, who is anxious to sample Newmarket. Hilliard will be the perfect nanny.”
    Drake shook his head. “He won’t thank you.”
    For the first time, Thirsk smiled. “Oh, I think he might. You forget. I’ve seen his wife.”
    It was the definition of ambivalence. The last thing Diccan wanted was to ride herd on a petulant royal. He would enjoy the
     horse racing, but not with the prince along. There were only so many times a man could hear improbable sexual exploits in
     German before he committed homicide.
    On the other hand, he was guiltily relieved that he had an excuse to put off his wedding night. He did not like to be confused,
     and Grace Fairchild confused him. He had worried over her yesterday. He’d been relieved when she’d turned up safe, and delighted
     when she’d shown suchunexpected vulnerability. He’d even been surprised by a stab of fear at the sight of that bandage.
    It hadn’t changed his mind about their future, though. In fact, it had cemented it. He didn’t have the time for that kind
     of worry in his life right now. He didn’t want to always wonder about her. Hell, he didn’t even want to bed her.
    Yes, he had suffered brief episodes of arousal around her. But it hadn’t happened again. He couldn’t imagine that it would.
     Not for a woman who dressed like a nanny, fought like a hussar, and couldn’t be coy if her life depended on it.
    Two weeks ago, Diccan had had his hands full of Minette Ferrar’s magnificent, creamy breasts. How in God’s name could Grace
     Fairchild compare? Wasn’t it a better idea to wait until he could feel more enthusiastic about the whole thing?
    It didn’t help that Biddle kept sniffing as he packed. Diccan knew Biddle disapproved of him. No one had a repertoire of resigned
     sighs and disapproving sniffs quite like Biddle. These particular sniffs, though, were beginning to sound like a certain defensiveness
     for Diccan’s wife, who had taken the news of his leaving with quiet acceptance.
    “If you are so unhappy, Biddle,” Diccan said, shrugging into his drab surtout, “I can certainly give you a good recommendation.”
    “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, sir.” Sniff.
    Diccan took his beaver hat from Biddle’s hand. “While you’re sighing away, don’t forget to keep alert. The Surgeon is on the
     loose, and I know how you hate surprises.”
    “You have not mentioned his escape to Mrs. Hilliard?”
    Diccan shrugged. “I’d hate for her to worry. She will be watched. Besides, she’s already played her part in this farce.”
    Biddle’s answer was another sniff. Diccan gave up andleft. He was going to ride. The sun had finally come out,