Page 35 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“Torbay!”

Without looking up from his peas—hopefully they were good, and not well—Rupert clarified. “We visited Brighton last year, and Devon the year before. Mother wants to visit Whitstable next.”

Felicity looked relieved. “Yes, of course. Thank you for remembering, dear.”

Good God, when had his youngest become so adept at fibbing? Perhaps Rupert had been spending too much time with Bull.

Strangely this realization threatened, even more, Griffin’s control. He couldn’t tell why, exactly, his chest was burning, but he didn’t like it. Anger? Laughter? Helplessness? Irritation?

Why’d ye agree to this ruse in the first place?

Well, it was nearly over.

Mr. Armstrong seemed completely duped. And utterly enthralled.

“I have to admit, Mr. Calderbank, that when your children wrote the letter to the duke, we were both quite intrigued.”

Since he was being directly addressed, Griffin supposed he had to answer. He cleared his throat. “Aye, well…”

“My husband did not quite know their plan, Mr. Armstrong,” interrupted Felicity demurely.

Griffin was ashamed to realize he’d breathed a sigh of relief at her help.

The older man offered a fond smile. “Please, Mrs. Calderbank, call me Ian.”

“Then you must call me Felicity—Flick. Everyone else does.” Did she roll her eyes just slightly? “But I must confess a secret, since I do not expect Griffin to.”

She leaned forward in her seat, and the motion appeared to be the limit of what Monster-Fiend-Demon-Hellspawn could take, because the wee gray kitten gave a rmalwp and jumped to the table.

Unfortunately, he landed in the cranberry sauce.

As Felicity gasped, Bull reacted with lightening reflexes, scooping up the crystal goblet, but not before the cat tracked blood-red cranberry across the white linen.

As the angry little feline jumped to the ground and darted between the footman’s legs, who chased the beast from the room, Felicity began to laugh.

She sat back in her chair, holding her stomach, and Bull joined her in chuckling. Soon Marcia and Armstrong had joined in, and even Griffin felt his lips twitching.

“I suppose we ought to get the tablecloth soaking,” said Marcia, a bit worriedly. “Mrs. Mac showed me how to get fruit stains out.”

The secretary looked as if he were having a grand time. “Mrs. Mac?”

Felicity hurried to answer. “Mrs. Mac—MacSquash, next door. She…helps with the children’s…education.”

MacSquash?

“How interesting!” The older man turned to Rupert. “Is that who you were visiting when I arrived? Your sister said she had to fetch you from next door prior to dinner.”

Rupert’s expression was carefully blank as he glanced at Marcia, then back to the secretary. “Yes. I was…with Mrs. Mac. We were…working…on a thing.”

Interesting. He’d been quick with a lie minutes before, but now the lad seemed to be stuck for ideas. Griffin resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and vowed to have a talk with his son about the merits of honesty.

“A thing. How delightful!” Ian turned back to Felicity. “Now, what were you saying about a secret?” He waggled a finger around the table. “There’ll be no secrets from the Duke, I would hope!”

No’ bloody likely.

The whole damned thing was a secret.

Felicity, however, seemed to be settling into the lie remarkably well. She could’ve been in Blackrose’s employ, so easily did she come up with fibs. With a smile, she collected herself. “Oh, yes, the secret. Well, I will tell you, since my husband will not confess. You see, until this evening, neither of us had any idea these scamps wrote you that letter.”

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