Page 11 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

His stomach rumbled, but he figured whatever his daughter had planned, he’d be able to eat sooner if he went along with it.

“Aye, fine,” he grumbled. “But just the jacket.”

When she smiled, her entire face lit. Everything about her appearance—from her round cheeks to the dimple in her chin to the gap in her front teeth—reminded him of her mother, Mary. But when it came to cunning, she was most definitely his child.

“Thank you, Papa! I knew I could count on you!” she declared, then lifted up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek before darting off toward the kitchens.

Hopefully to help Mrs. Mac. His stomach growled again as he stomped up the stairs, already loosening his necktie.

This wasn’t the first time Marcia had roped him into one of her fancy dinners or tea parties, although it was the first time in at least four years. He’d never known Rupert to go along with them so readily, but perhaps the lad was growing up a wee bit.

Or perhaps Marcia and Mrs. Mac have conspired against the men in the household. Rupert would do anything for one of her plum cakes, as would ye.

And Griffin knew, as well as Marcia, that he wasn’t going to just change his jacket. A dinner jacket required black trousers and a nicer waistcoat, and he might as well change shirts while he was at it.

He did, then he rolled up his sleeves to scrub his face. As he was drying his hands, his eye was caught by a particularly vivid scar across the back of his third knuckle on his right hand. Reflexively, he rubbed the pads of his first two fingers across the mark, remembering how he’d received it.

The skin had broken open against his opponent’s forehead, a poorly placed but desperate blow. As the blood had bloomed from the cut, Griffin had ducked a blow from the man’s partner, then rolled to avoid a jab from a blade.

He blinked down at the mark, the last one he’d received while working for William Blackrose.

His hands—and the rest of him—were covered in scars from his time as a fighter in what he had thought was service to the Crown.

But the scars he carried on his soul were far worse.

With a sigh, he flexed his hands once, twice, then tossed the towel over the bar. Ye’re out of it for good, laddie, and yer family is safe. What more can ye ask for?

Blackrose wasn’t dead.

And until Blackrose was dead, Griffin would protect his family from the bastard.

Unlike last time.

Rolling his shoulders, he fought down the urge to growl out a curse, and instead shrugged into a dark waistcoat and hung a necktie around his neck. Where the hell was his dinner jacket? He hadn’t worn it since they’d returned to London—hadn’t had a reason to—but Mrs. Mac would—

The front bell interrupted his thoughts, and he froze, his fingers stilling in the process of buttoning the waistcoat.

Who would be calling? Thorne was the only one who knew Griffin’s location, and he usually sent word before he arrived.

It’s a delivery. A telegram, perhaps.

Or Blackrose.

Jaw set, Griffin whirled for the door, snatching up the lower-back sheath for the daggers he’d plunked on the nightstand as he’d entered. He pounded down the stairs, willing neither of his children to step into the foyer as he belted the sheath around his waist.

His family knew they weren’t allowed to answer the door without him—that’s why the damned secret panel to the house next door was so galling—so luckily, they stayed away.

He paused at the front door, shifted his shoulder, feeling the sheath and the blades fall into place at the base of his spine.

Then he reached for the latch.

Standing on the doorstep, mid-whispered-argument, stood Bull Lindsay…and his mother.

Both were surprised by him pulling open the door—what, were they expecting a butler?—but Bull’s expression quickly slid into the easy grin of his that in a few years would either get him married or a broken nose. Probably both.

But Felicity…Felicity just stared.

Not in a, Oh my stars, what kind of gentlemen opens the door himself or Oh my stars, he’s half-dressed and I can see his forearms, fetch me my smelling salts, but rather a different kind of stare.

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