Page 117 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

But how?

The conversation swirled around him, as he tried to consider the future. If only Peasgoode and Armstrong weren’t traitors. If only all this subterfuge and elephant hunting and masquerading hadn’t happened, and the Duke could grant them a future here.

Together.

When the food was finished and Duncan asked for a demonstration of Felicity’s photo apparatuses, she suggested the shade of a nearby copse of trees, tucked up against the riverbank. Bull jumped to his feet to push the Duke’s chair. Ian offered Marcia his arm—she’d somewhere acquired a man’s bowler hat, which didn’t quite fit atop her braids—and Felicity took Rupert’s hand. Griffin trailed behind his family, not certain he liked this internal bemusement.

He needed to be on alert, to keep his senses keen. The series of perhaps-accidents which had plagued him since their arrival at Peasgoode were enough to make any man wary…but at that moment, he couldn’t seem to care. If that tree came crashing down, he would likely do nothing more than idly watch, because he was so distracted by his realization.

He loved Felicity, and that could be damned dangerous.

By the time the afternoon began to wane, however, he couldn’t deny how comfortable they all were together. “Uncle Duncan” laughed with the children and—in between teaching them all sorts of fun things about the Highlands—posed for photographs, and insisted on learning how the moving pictures camera worked, which Bull was happy to explain. And when Ian took Rupert to the roiling river’s edge, he’d held the lad’s hand as tightly as any nanny, despite Rupert’s protests that he was old enough to swim.

“I’m sure you are, young man, but the river is deep and fast right now, and even a full-grown man would be hard-pressed to survive such a swim. If you fall in and drown, it won’t be on my watch!”

Now Bull was trying to teach Marcia how to walk on her hands, while Duncan laughingly called out suggestions and held the camera. Felicity and Rupert sat in the grass beneath one of the trees, dismantling the second photography device and peering into its innards. The lad seemed as enthralled with her explanation as he would be with an engineering concern. Perhaps he’d grow up to be a scientist as well.

Hearing the sounds of a horse in the distance, Griffin turned to see a rider cantering toward them.

“Uh-oh,” murmured Duncan. “We’ve been found out. Can the man ever just let us enjoy ourselves?”

Griffin was worried the Duke was speaking to him, but when he turned, Duncan was winking at Ian.

The secretary gave a sigh and stood. “John’s enthusiastic, and you have to admit he handles your business well. He’ll make a good steward for whoever you choose to hold Peasgoode after you.”

“I ken, I ken.” Duncan waved the other man away. “Duty calls, and all that nonsense.”

Idly, Griffin watched Ian meet the rider on the other side of the copse of trees. The man swung down from his horse, pulled his hat from his head, and swatted the animal with it. The horse turned and trotted back toward the estate, which struck Griffin as strange, as the man turned back to speak heatedly to the Duke’s secretary.

Sucking in a breath, Griffin’s eyes widened in recognition.

It was the hair. The hair he’d never forget.

Wilson’s hair.

The man he’d killed, that horrible night Blackrose had given him his last assignment.

Wilson didnae die.

When he felt a small hand slide into his, he tried not to startle. “What do you think they are discussing so animatedly?” Felicity murmured, beside him.

“I dinnae ken.” But suddenly, it was very important.

“That’s John Totwafel,” she told him. “Remember, I told you about him? He appears to be Ian’s right-hand man, he has complete control over the estate. Sort of an assistant secretary, land steward, and clerk all in one. I told you his hair was unforgettable.”

It most certainly was.

Orange, wiry curls stuck out from the man’s head, making him look a bit like an angry carrot as he gestured with his hat to his uncle, then the remains of the picnic, and their leisurely party.

“Oh dear,” she murmured. “It looks like Mr. Totwafel disapproves of Ian taking a bit of a holiday from work.”

“Aye, he always was a prat.”

Felicity swung on him in surprise. “What? You know him?”

Still glaring at the man, Griffin growled. “Aye, and I’ve figured out what the hell is going on around here. I dinnae care what name he’s going by now, but when I kenned him, he was John Wilson.” He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, excitement humming through his veins. “He was one of Blackrose’s agents.”

Chapter 21

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