"There's no doubt that having Richard to rear really did make Maman happy. The matter caused no one any harm; my father acknowledged him and made provision for him in his will." Devil drew a deep breath. "And that's the story of the Scandal That Never Was."
Honoria lay still; Devil's hand stroked her hair. "So now you know Richard's not my heir." His hand slid to her nape. "He's not the one trying to kill me."
Honoria listened to the steady thud of his heart. She was glad it wasn't Richard-she liked him, and knew Devil was fond of him. Without lifting her head, she murmured: "Your mother's a fascinating woman."
Devil rolled, rolling her under him; on his elbows, he brushed her hair from her face. "She certainly fascinated my father." Honoria felt his eyes on her face, then his head dipped. His lips brushed hers. "Just as my duchess fascinates me."
They were the last logical words said that night.
She needed to have a long, serious talk with her husband. Clad in a translucent ivory peignoir trimmed with feathers, Honoria paced the ducal bedchamber and waited for him to appear.
They'd met at breakfast and again at dinner, but she could hardly interrogate him in front of the servants. He was presently at White's, meeting with Viscount Bromley. That much she knew, that much he'd told her. What he hadn't told her was what he thought, who he suspected.
As Richard was illegitimate, he couldn't inherit, not with so many legitimate males in the family. After learning how Scandal had come by his name, she hadn't needed to ask who Devil's heir was. In the weeks before their marriage, she'd questioned Horatia about Devil's father-in passing, Horatia had mentioned that George, her husband, Vane's father, was a bare year younger than Devil's father. Which meant that, with Richard ineligible, George was Devil's heir, with Vane next in line.
Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine George as the villain of the piece. Devil treated him as a surrogate father, an affection George openly returned. And Vane's devotion to Devil was beyond question. So the killer wasn't Devil's heir, but as soon as she'd drawn Vane's attention to the point, he'd seen a blinding light.
With a frustrated growl, Honoria kicked her feathered hem aside. "So what is it about the heir that makes all obvious?"
Devil knew; Vane was sure he'd followed the same reasoning and come up with an answer. Presumably, as it wasn't the heir, some process of elimination illuminated the true killer. Who was…
Honoria glared at the clock. And tried not to think of the other reason she was pacing, eager to set eyes on her husband again. Someone was trying to kill him. This house was a safe haven; he was safe here. But outside…?
She wanted him here, safe in her arms.
Honoria shivered; she wrapped her arms about her and, frowning, looked at the clock again. Lips setting, she made for the door. Opening it, she listened; as the clock on the mantel had correctly foretold, the clock on the stairs whirred, then chimed. Twelve deep booms resonated through the house. Midnight-and Devil was still not back.
She was closing the door when the front knocker sounded-a curt, peremptory summons. Honoria paused, her frown deepening. Who would come calling at midnight? Devil had a latchkey, so…
The b
lood drained from her face. Her heart stuttered, then started to race. She was halfway down the corridor before she realized she'd moved. Then she picked up her skirts and flew.
She raced through the gallery to the top of the stairs. Breathless, she clutched the wide banister and looked down. Webster swung the door wide, revealing a shadowy figure. The figure stepped forward; the light from the hall lamps burnished Vane's chestnut locks.
He handed his cane to Webster. "Where's Devil?"
Accepting the cane, Webster shut the door. "His Grace has not yet returned, sir."
"He hasn't?"
Even from the top of the stairs, Honoria heard Vane's surprise.
"I believe he went to White's, sir."
"Yes, I know." Vane sounded vague. "I left before him-I had to call at a friend's, but he intended leaving on my heels. I would have thought he'd be here by now."
Her heart thumping, Honoria watched the men stare at each other-the black specter she'd held at bay all day suddenly swirled closer. She leaned over the banister. "Vane?"
He looked up, then blinked. Surprise leached from his face, leaving it curiously blank. Webster glanced up, too, but immediately lowered his gaze.
Vane cleared his throat, and tried not to focus. "Yes, Honoria?"
"Go and look for him. Please?" The last word was heavy with latent fear.
Vane tried an unfocused frown. "He probably fell in with some friends and was delayed."
Honoria shook her head violently; inside, a familiar panic was rising. "No-something's happened. I know it." Her fingers tightened on the banister; her knuckles showed white. "Please-go now!"