The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

He smiled and pulled out the chair beside his. “Waiting to have luncheon with you.” He wasn’t game to try a full bow yet, but he gracefully waved. “Your seat, my dear.”

Halting, she narrowed her eyes at him—a habit he was growing quite fond of. “You,” she stated, “are a terrible patient.”

He arched his brows and looked from her to the chair.

On a muted sound of frustration, she swept her skirts in and sat.

Allowing a footman to settle her chair, he moved to his own. “I’m surprised David—Sanderson—didn’t mention that I tend to recover from injuries fairly rapidly.”

“He did mention something about you having the constitution of an ox.” She smiled briefly up at Pemberly as he shook out her napkin, then, more sharply, looked back at Ryder. “The good doctor, however, didn’t say anything about you having the brain of a mule.”

Ryder laughed. The footman smiled. Even Pemberly had trouble maintaining his usual imperturbable demeanor.

Ryder held up a hand in a fencer’s gesture of surrender. “Pax. I promise I’ll resist overtaxing myself.” When she met his eyes, a distrustful look in hers, he held her gaze and more quietly said, “You can’t seriously imagine I don’t want to recover as fast as I possibly can.”

She was passably good at comprehending his meaning, even when he spoke obliquely. A soft flush of delicious color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. Instead, somewhat to his surprise, she held his gaze for just an instant too long for the action to be anything other than a challenge, then she glanced at the platters Pemberly was laying before them. “Just as long as you agree not to push too hard.”

Leaving him to wonder how she intended him to interpret that, she directed Pemberly as to which delicacies to place on her plate.

After the meal, they repaired to the library. While she acquainted herself with the room, ambling down its length admiring the artworks and examining the leather-bound tomes, he sat at his desk and dealt with the most urgent of his neglected correspondence.

As the afternoon wore on, he debated gently suggesting she leave, but he couldn’t quite make up his mind to do it. Consequently, when the front doorbell pealed at three o’clock, she was there to greet her cousins—and their wives—as Pemberly ushered the six into the library.

Ryder had invited the gentlemen—Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives and the head of the Cynster family, plus Vane and Gabriel Cynster, the three being Mary’s oldest male cousins—but wasn’t surprised that their ladies had elected to accompany them. Rising from his desk, he strolled up the room, aware that Mary, who had been examining books in the corner behind his desk, had shaken off her astonishment, directed one of her narrow-eyed looks squarely between his shoulder blades, and was now swiftly walking forward to join the company.

Reaching Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, Ryder smiled, took the hand she offered, and was about to bow when Mary hit him on the arm with one small fist.

“No!” she told him, when, surprised, he glanced at her. Then she looked at her cousins’ wives and explained, “He’s been stabbed. He shouldn’t even try to bow.”

“Ah.” Honoria recovered first and pressed his fingers. When he looked at her, she smiled, richly entertained. “In that case, you’re excused.”

Mary made the introductions; although he knew the men, and had recently met the ladies at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball, he was nevertheless grateful to have the names repeated.

As he’d expected, they’d all heard the news. All offered their congratulations, which he and Mary accepted with due grace. Waving them to the chairs and sofas angled about the fireplace, he added, “Lord Arthur and I signed the settlements this morning. The official announcement will appear in the Gazette tomorrow.”

Devil sat on a straight-backed chair alongside the chaise on which his duchess had settled, and regarded Ryder with a direct and rather penetrating gaze. “But I’m sure you didn’t invite us here simply to share that information.”

Sinking into an armchair facing them all, Ryder inclined his head. “Indeed.” Briefly, he looked at the others. “I invited you here to explain that the attack in which I sustained my recent wound wasn’t, as no doubt the wider ton believes, a random act of opportunistic thievery that went sadly awry.”

Several moments of silence ensued while his guests—and Mary, who, seated on the nearer end of the sofa, turned a stunned face to him—digested that.

“I had wondered,” Vane eventually said, “why any thief in his right mind would accost you.”

“No matter how dark the alley,” Gabriel said, “they had to have been able to see your size.”

Ryder nodded. “And I was openly carrying a swordstick. Any of the miscreants who frequent this area know well enough to be wary, even if they can’t be sure it is, indeed, anything more than a cane.”

“But the two who attacked you—it was two?” Devil asked. When Ryder nodded, Devil continued, “They weren’t so aware.”

“No. They weren’t. But they did know my customary route home from the south—I almost always walk if I attend an event in Mayfair.”

“As do we all.” Vane leaned forward. “But are you saying they were lying in wait?”

“Not just lying in wait but in the perfect position to best ambush me—along a short stretch, no more than ten yards, where the alley to the south narrows so much I can only just pass freely through.”

Gabriel grimaced. “The one place where you would be most vulnerable.”

“What you’re saying”—Devil’s green eyes had narrowed—“is that you were specifically targeted. By whom?”