Page 26 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Miss Eversleigh swallowed with noticeable discomfort. “Your grace,” she said, “perhaps a word in private?”

“And spoil it for the rest of us?” Jack chimed in, because after what he’d been subjected to, he didn’t much feel that anyone deserved a moment of privacy. And then, to achieve maximum irritation, he added, “After all I’ve been through…”

“He is your cousin,” the dowager announced sharply.

“He is the highwayman,” Miss Eversleigh said.

“Not,” Jack added, turning to display his bound hands, “here of my own volition, I assure you.”

“Your grandmother thought she recognized him last night,” Miss Eversleigh told the duke.

“I knew I recognized him,” the dowager snapped. Jack resisted the urge to duck as she flicked her hand at him. “Just look at him.”

Jack turned to the duke. “I was wearing a mask.” Because really, he shouldn’t have to take the blame for this.

He smiled cheerfully, watching the duke with interest as he brought his hand to his forehead and pressed his temples with enough force to crush his skull. And then, just like that, his hand fell away and he yelled, “Cecil!”

Jack was about to make a quip about another lost cousin, but at that moment a footman—presumably named Cecil—came skidding down the hall.

“The portrait,” Wyndham bit off. “Of my uncle.”

“The one we just brought up to—”

“Yes. In the drawing room. Now!”

Even Jack’s eyes widened at the furious energy in his voice.

And then—it was like acid in his belly—he saw Miss Eversleigh lay a hand on the duke’s arm. “Thomas,” she said softly, surprising him with her use of his given name, “please allow me to explain.”

“Did you know about this?” Wyndham demanded.

“Yes, but—”

“Last night,” he said icily. “Did you know last night?”

Last night?

“I did, but Thomas—”

What happened last night?

“Enough,” he spat. “Into the drawing room. All of you.”

Jack followed the duke, and then, once the door was shut behind them, held up his hands. “D’you think you might…?” he asked. Rather conversationally, if he did say so himself.

“For the love of Christ,” Wyndham muttered. He grabbed something from a writing table near the wall and then returned. With one angry swipe, he cut through the bindings with a gold letter opener.

Jack looked down to make sure he wasn’t bleeding. “Well done,” he murmured. Not even a scratch.

“Thomas,” Miss Eversleigh was saying, “I really think you ought to let me speak with you for a moment before—”

“Before what?” Wyndham snapped, turning on her with what Jack deemed rather unbecoming fury. “Before I am informed of another long-lost cousin whose head may or may not be wanted by the Crown?”

“Not by the Crown, I think,” Jack said mildly. He had his reputation to think of, after all. “But surely a few magistrates. And a vicar or two.” He turned to the dowager. “Highway robbery is not generally considered the most secure of all possible occupations.”

His levity was appreciated by no one, not even poor Miss Eversleigh, who had managed to incur the fury of both Wyndhams. Rather undeservedly, too, in his opinion. He hated bullies.

“Thomas,” Miss Eversleigh implored, her tone once again causing Jack to wonder just what, precisely, existed between those two. “Your grace,” she corrected, with a nervous glance over at the dowager, “there is something you need to know.”

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