entered the bedchamber together. Even from the corridor, Fallon heard their gasps.
Heart hammering in a way she could not explain, she stumbled ahead, pushing among the other servants, peering over their heads, her only thought of the duke, praying that he was not ill or harmed. His last femaleguest made off with the silver, after all. Perhaps the woman he selected for the previous evening’s pleasure possessed even lower scruples. Perhaps she had harmed him while he slept.
Sick at the thought, she didn’t even think to mind when Nancy grasped her arm, a clinging vine at her side while Fallon peered inside the room. Like the butler and housekeeper before her, Fallon gasped.
“Is that a pistol?” Nancy whispered.
Fallon nodded grimly, eyeing the squat, rotund man wearing an unfortunate checked jacket. He brandished a pistol, pointing it at the duke and his bedmate.
“Harold, darling, please. Put down the pistol!” The female’s hands clutched the sheet to her ample bosom. Ashy-blond hair surrounded her in a wild cloud, reminding Fallon of the fog perpetually cloaking the city.
Propped up on a pillow, his bare chest a far too tempting sight—dark, coiling serpent tattoo and all—the duke lounged in the bed as if he didn’t care one whit that a pistol waved in his general direction. “Word is you’re far from a crack shot, Lord Foley. Maybe you should step closer for a more accurate aim?”
“So you can grab the pistol out of my hands?” Harold sneered. “I don’t think so.”
The duke shrugged as if the idea had not occurred to him.
“Must you provoke him?” The female hissed before returning her gaze to her husband. Eyes glowing with entreaty, she scooted farther from the duke, as if distance from him would save her. “Harold, darling. Please. He means nothing to me. You’re my husband…the man I love.”
Some of the tightness about Harold’s lips loosened. He lowered his arm, eyes gleaming moistly as he gazed adoringly at his wife. Fallon released a pent-up breath. Thank goodness the cuckold loved his wife to the point of blindness. The duke might yet survive the morning.
“I’m so glad you found me. The wretch tricked me and was on the verge of taking horrible advantage of me.”
“On the verge?” the duke queried with a drollness, shocking given the circumstances. “Two times and we were just on theverge ? I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me next, Gracie.”
Fire lit Gracie’s cheeks. “You’re no gentleman!”
His lips curved wickedly. “And I thought that’s what you liked about me.”
“Bastard!”
“That’s not what you were calling me earlier.”
Some of the servants chuckled. Fallon simply shook her head. Was hetrying to get himself killed?
Harold sputtered. “You’ve dallied the last with another man’s wife, Damon.”
The duke rolled his eyes and waved his hand in a small circle. “I feel as though I’m watching a Drury Lane performance. Surely if I’m to die, that clichéd remark won’t be what I take with me into the hereafter?”
The irate husband’s cheeks grew ruddier.
“Truly.” The duke’s voice changed pitch as he mimicked, “You’ve dallied the last?”He shook his head. “Not entirely original, is it?”
Harold shook with outrage. Straightening, he snapped his arm up again, pointing the pistol in the duke’s direction. “I’m not overly concerned with originality.”
Fallon’s chest grew tight as steel-cold conviction swept over her—she was about to witness murder. And no one seemed inclined to stop it.
The duke’s jaw tightened, revealing that he was not unaffected. Not as he would like everyone to think. Not as a man deserving death might duly accept his fate. Suddenly, she knew she could not stand idle. Could not watch him die…especially when she could stop it.
Harold’s red-rimmed eyes focused with deadly intent on the duke. Fallon plunged into the room, past gaping servants who would do nothing
Heart hammering in a way she could not explain, she stumbled ahead, pushing among the other servants, peering over their heads, her only thought of the duke, praying that he was not ill or harmed. His last femaleguest made off with the silver, after all. Perhaps the woman he selected for the previous evening’s pleasure possessed even lower scruples. Perhaps she had harmed him while he slept.
Sick at the thought, she didn’t even think to mind when Nancy grasped her arm, a clinging vine at her side while Fallon peered inside the room. Like the butler and housekeeper before her, Fallon gasped.
“Is that a pistol?” Nancy whispered.
Fallon nodded grimly, eyeing the squat, rotund man wearing an unfortunate checked jacket. He brandished a pistol, pointing it at the duke and his bedmate.
“Harold, darling, please. Put down the pistol!” The female’s hands clutched the sheet to her ample bosom. Ashy-blond hair surrounded her in a wild cloud, reminding Fallon of the fog perpetually cloaking the city.
Propped up on a pillow, his bare chest a far too tempting sight—dark, coiling serpent tattoo and all—the duke lounged in the bed as if he didn’t care one whit that a pistol waved in his general direction. “Word is you’re far from a crack shot, Lord Foley. Maybe you should step closer for a more accurate aim?”
“So you can grab the pistol out of my hands?” Harold sneered. “I don’t think so.”
The duke shrugged as if the idea had not occurred to him.
“Must you provoke him?” The female hissed before returning her gaze to her husband. Eyes glowing with entreaty, she scooted farther from the duke, as if distance from him would save her. “Harold, darling. Please. He means nothing to me. You’re my husband…the man I love.”
Some of the tightness about Harold’s lips loosened. He lowered his arm, eyes gleaming moistly as he gazed adoringly at his wife. Fallon released a pent-up breath. Thank goodness the cuckold loved his wife to the point of blindness. The duke might yet survive the morning.
“I’m so glad you found me. The wretch tricked me and was on the verge of taking horrible advantage of me.”
“On the verge?” the duke queried with a drollness, shocking given the circumstances. “Two times and we were just on theverge ? I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me next, Gracie.”
Fire lit Gracie’s cheeks. “You’re no gentleman!”
His lips curved wickedly. “And I thought that’s what you liked about me.”
“Bastard!”
“That’s not what you were calling me earlier.”
Some of the servants chuckled. Fallon simply shook her head. Was hetrying to get himself killed?
Harold sputtered. “You’ve dallied the last with another man’s wife, Damon.”
The duke rolled his eyes and waved his hand in a small circle. “I feel as though I’m watching a Drury Lane performance. Surely if I’m to die, that clichéd remark won’t be what I take with me into the hereafter?”
The irate husband’s cheeks grew ruddier.
“Truly.” The duke’s voice changed pitch as he mimicked, “You’ve dallied the last?”He shook his head. “Not entirely original, is it?”
Harold shook with outrage. Straightening, he snapped his arm up again, pointing the pistol in the duke’s direction. “I’m not overly concerned with originality.”
Fallon’s chest grew tight as steel-cold conviction swept over her—she was about to witness murder. And no one seemed inclined to stop it.
The duke’s jaw tightened, revealing that he was not unaffected. Not as he would like everyone to think. Not as a man deserving death might duly accept his fate. Suddenly, she knew she could not stand idle. Could not watch him die…especially when she could stop it.
Harold’s red-rimmed eyes focused with deadly intent on the duke. Fallon plunged into the room, past gaping servants who would do nothing
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