Page 37 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

A spy? Of course, Felicity could guess why Bull had chosen that particular lie, but it didn’t make it better. Or was Griffin’s anger based on the fact they were now expected to travel all the way to Scotland, after Bull had promised the lies would only be for one night?

Impossible.

She’d only just perfected her camera’s shutter problem; there was no way she could leave it now.

Bull was gesturing at them to join him in the study, and when Felicity glanced down at the lad holding her hand, Rupert’s little mouth was pulled into a frown. They followed Griffin, who stalked into her study, paused to glance around at her apparatuses, then took a deep breath and headed—unerringly—for the secret door built into the paneling.

“If I open this, how many cats will run through?”

Was that a joke? Griffin Calderbank did not make jokes. Felicity glanced around. “Neither Nyan nor Cheeseburg are in here, so as long as we close it directly behind us…”

He yanked it opened, then stood there as they each climbed through the door into the empty room on his side of the wall.

Felicity, Bull, Marcia and Rupert stood about awkwardly as he pulled the door closed, then brushed past them, heading out of the dark room. Felicity exchanged a glance with Marcia, who had gone beyond worried and into scared.

Oh dear.

In her hold, Rupert’s small hand had gone clammy. Were they scared of their father? Griffin wouldn’t hurt them, surely they knew that? Well. Felicity raised her chin and gathered her skirts once more. It was up to her to stand in front of their father’s anger.

They followed him into his own study—bare except for a desk, chair, and an overflowing bookshelf—where he stood facing the window, which overlooked the evening street outside. Even from here she could see the tension in his shoulders, and the way those magnificent hands flexed and unflexed at his sides, as if he was imagining strangling someone.

Bull took a step toward him, and before Felicity could point out that now wasn’t the time to get cocky, her son ventured, “Gruff?”

“Ye little shite,” the man growled, without turning around. “Of all the lies…God damn. Why that one?”

“Ye being a spy?” Bull swallowed and exchanged a glance with Marcia. “Because it sounded better than meek accounting clerk.”

“Damnation!” In an alarming blur of motion, Griffin’s palms slammed into the window frame. Startled, Felicity pulled Rupert against her.

As he dropped his head and breathed deeply, Griffin’s growl was so low she barely heard it. “Being a meek accounting clerk has kept my family safe all these years.”

Marcia grabbed Bull’s arm. When he turned to her, she shook her head, and he frowned.

What were those two up to?

The silence stretched, and Felicity’s pulse seemed unnaturally loud in her ears. Was she supposed to say something? Diffuse the situation?

And then to make matters worse, there came, from downstairs, a knock on the door.

When Rupert turned—almost gratefully—to leave the room, presumably to answer the door, his sister stopped him. “You know Papa’s rule; no one answers the door but him!”

Griffin had already raised his head and was looking out the window. He sighed. “Thorne’s carriage. Of course. Just what I need.” He shook his head, and Felicity could feel his frustration. “Aye, Rupert, go let him in. I need to speak to yer sister and bro—damn, I mean, Bull.”

Felicity reluctantly released Rupert and wrapped her arms around her middle. Bull was too old to cuddle, so why did she feel the need to reach for someone?

“Bull?” Griffin’s growl was low, dangerous.

Before her son could speak, Marcia stepped in front of him. “Papa, we’re sorry. We didn’t know that we would be required to visit Scotland. We know you wouldn’t have agreed to that.”

Griffin was still staring out the window, his hands braced against the frame. “This has gone too far. Too many lies.”

“We know, Papa. We know you’re not a spy, honest, but Bull’s right, it did sound more exciting, and we just wanted the Duke to choose you…”

She trailed off, and her father…well, Griffin’s shoulders were encased in simple wool, the jacket he’d been wearing when he’d accepted her invitation to tea-and-scandalous-propositions. But even so, she could see them slump, see his exhale as he dropped his head down between his shoulders.

“Holy shite,” muttered Bull, his eyes wide. “It’s no’ a lie, is it?”

Felicity swung to him. “What?”

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