Page 86 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Griffin read it under his breath to Bull.

“Agents in C must mean Canada,” the lad whispered back. “And P is obviously Peasgoode. But the Duke’s name doesnae start with a W.”

“Aye,” Griffin muttered. “And neither does Ian Armstrong.”

“So are we dealing with someone else?”

“Or a code name.” Griffin hated code names, they got so fooking confusing. “We’ll need to keep searching. Nay, I’ll—”

“Aye, aye, ye’ll search, I’ll just be charming and distracting.”

Griffin nodded. “Good. There’s a postscript.” He frowned. “For ye?”

“Really?” Bull craned his neck. “What’s it say?”

“Postscript: Tell Bull, Honoria’s increasing again. Once this is handled, I know she would love to have him visit.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Bull gasped and snatched the letter from Griffin’s hands, as if reading them with his own eyes could offer insight.

Why in the hell was the bloody Duke of bloody Exingham writing a postscript to Bull? “Who’s Honoria?” he barked.

Bull’s gaze was still greedily devouring the words on the page. “My sister,” he said without looking up. “She’s married to Laird MacLeod, up on Skye—I lived with them. Her first pregnancy was dangerous, I ken she wouldnae want to travel with this one.”

Griffin glanced around. They were standing in the foyer, and would be certain to attract attention. He took the lad’s elbow and steered him toward the large front door, where another impassive footman let them out into the bright, crisp sunshine.

Bull was distracted enough not to flirt with this one, at least.

Perhaps they could investigate the flower gardens or something for a while, while Griffin got some answers.

“Yer sister lives on Skye?” And married to a laird?

Bull had refolded the letter and now handed it back to Griffin to slip into his jacket. “Half-sister, one of—och, I always lose count of them all.” He shrugged. “When Flick dropped me off at Exingham, turned out my father wanted nothing to do with me, after all. Honoria more or less raised me.”

He’d shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets, which proved exactly how nervous this conversation was making him. Even Griffin, who’d known the lad only a few months, could tell that. So he treaded carefully.

“I can see that ye’d be concerned about her pregnancy, then. Do ye want to visit her while we’re in the Highlands?”

“Aye, of course!” A pained smile flickered across the boy’s face briefly. “Crowe, her husband, was the first to call me Ye Little Shite, ye ken. That was my nickname for a while.”

“Aye, well, it fits,” Griffin mumbled, and was gratified to see a real grin cross the lad’s face. “And…Honoria, yer half-sister…she lived at Exingham when ye—when ye were dropped off there?”

“Och, aye, of course. She was unmarried, and my father’s hostess for a long while.”

Griffin felt as if he had all the strings of a spider’s web in one hand, and if he gave them a tug, either everything would fall into place…or he’d be covered in sticky crap.

“And…who was yer father, lad?”

Bull stopped on the gravel path, looking surprised. “Ye dinnae ken that? James Lindsay, the Duke of Exingham! I’m his bastard. Rourke”—he nodded to the letter in Griffin’s jacket—“is my half-brother!”

Griffin exhaled.

Bull was the son—the bastard son of the old Duke of Exingham. Griffin had heard all the hints, all the references, and all this time, he’d assumed Bull was tangentially related to Exingham. A Lindsay cousin or second cousin, perhaps.

He’d known Felicity hadn’t been married, but hadn’t asked who the father of her child had been. Hadn’t asked why she hadn’t raised Bull.

Hadn’t asked quite a few questions, for fear of being asked about his past in return.

“Rourke Lindsay, Blackrose’s Blade, is yer brother?” he clarified.

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