What a Duke Dares (Sons of Sin 3)

“I don’t know,” Pen said miserably.

“I’ve got men on the north road looking for them.” Leath suddenly looked deathly tired. “Sophie was meant to attend the theatre with Lady Gresham. I wouldn’t have discovered her absence until breakfast, except Lady Gresham sent a note after the play asking after Sophie’s headache.”

“So they’ve got a good start,” Cam said grimly.

“If they’ve left London.”

Dixon cleared his throat to gain his employer’s attention. Cam realized that his butler waited near the library door, struggling to hide his fascination.

“What is it, Dixon?” Cam said, cursing himself for not taking Leath somewhere private whether the bugger wanted to go or not. The staff would know every detail of this brawl before the morning was out.

Dixon approached and extended a salver upon which rested a letter. “Your pardon, Your Grace. A note was delivered this evening for Her Grace and Thomas placed it with the other mail. When I heard the disturbance, I took the liberty of checking to see if Mr. Thorne had sent a message.”

Cam reached out, but Pen was there first. “The letter is meant for me,” she said with a touch of spirit, ripping it open with shaking hands.

“Give it to me.” Leath snatched the paper. He quickly scanned the contents, then crumpled the page with a savagery that Cam knew he’d rather expend on Harry Thorne. Tossing the letter to the floor, Leath headed for the door without a farewell.

“Wait.” Pen bent to retrieve the page and smooth it. “Before you go—”

“Time is of the essence.” He didn’t pause.

“Please,” Pen called after him. “Surely, my lord, you can spare one moment.”

“Thank you, Dixon.” Cam said firmly. Reluctantly Dixon turned to go.

Leath faced Pen, his features a mask of disdain. “I owe you nothing. If you were my wife, I’d horsewhip you.”

“Look to your own household and your hoyden of a sister,” Cam bit out. “My wife isn’t your concern.”

“Thank God,” Leath said fervently.

At last Cam glanced at Pen. She was paler than the paper she held and her black eyes were lifeless.

“I have no excuse,” she said dully. Cam had never heard her sound like this. “But before you go, please, tell me how you know I was involved and how you know about Russell Square.”

&nb

sp; Leath’s laugh was so cutting that Pen jerked back as if he’d hit her. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. Word is everywhere about the duchess playing pimp for her brother.”

“But how—” Pen looked utterly horrified. “We were so careful.”

“Not careful enough.” He sighed and spoke less aggressively. “Just as I wasn’t careful enough with Sophie. Believe me, I make no excuses for my own faults in this matter.”

“I’m sorry.” Piercing regret weighted Pen’s voice.

“Too little too late.” Leath inhaled, fighting to control his temper. When he spoke, he sounded more like the man Cam had faced in so many parliamentary debates. “A hackney driver recognized Sophie. The gossip rags pay for items of interest. A journalist dug up the rest of the sorry facts, including your ownership of the house where Thorne lured my sister. That journalist has trailed them all week. The story hit this evening’s papers. I’m guessing the elopement will make a fine follow-up piece tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t you ask the damned scribbler about their destination instead of barging in here?” Cam asked sharply, even as visions of cataclysmic scandal battered him. While his deepest fury centered on Pen’s breach of trust, he didn’t discount what hell life would become for Fairbrothers, Thornes, and Rothermeres in the wake of this rash imbecility.

“I tried. For a few shillings, the man proved disgustingly voluble. Such is the worth of my sister’s honor.”

Cam had seen immediately that Leath’s anger, while powerful, couldn’t compare with his profound hurt. How odd that he and Leath were in exactly the same boat. A sinking one.

“He saw Thorne collect my sister in a closed carriage from the back gate of Leath House, but lost them in traffic.”

“So publicity is unavoidable,” Pen said bleakly.

Leath cast her a look of loathing. The mark on his chin looked red and sore and promised to become an impressive bruise. “My sister will be branded a harlot. Your brother’s name will become a byword for dishonor. You will be derided as a bawd who promoted a young girl’s destruction. The world will sneer at your husband as a fool in the hands of a brazen woman. A fine result for your interference, madam.”