Page 120 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“George and William Stoughton.”

The Duke’s expression cleared. “Ah, yes. George is an earl, correct? I believe they’re both fourth cousins, a few times removed.” He slapped his knee. “But dinnae fash, laddie! Yer closer to me than that. We’re third cousins, remember?”

“Aye,” Griffin choked, his gaze flicking back toward Ian and Totwafel. “And…did ye hear from the Stoughtons? Did they reply to the notice?”

Again, Duncan frowned thoughtfully, gazing at nothing in particular as he thought. “I…remember hearing from one of them. The older one, George. That’s how I remember he’s an earl. He spoke at length of his daughter, who just married a Viscount, but Ian told me he had two daughters.”

“The other one is married to a duke,” Felicity supplied helpfully. “But the earl disowned her. She is my good friend.”

“Well, George doesnae sound like the sort of man I want in my family,” the Duke chuckled. “And I dinnae believe I ever heard from the other brother. William?”

“Aye, William,” Griffin agreed hoarsely. “He’s in Canada.”

Duncan hummed. “Well, the post works both ways these days.”

“That it does.”

“Say, laddie, what’s this all about? Do ye ken this William? What was the dispute?”

At her side, Griffin took a deep breath. “I think yer secretary, the man ye call Totwafel, kens him quite well.”

“Really? He never said. Och, look, he’s coming this way! We should ask.”

Griffin turned, muttering fook under his breath. Then he gave Felicity a little push. “Go. The children…”

She didn’t need to be told what he meant. This wasn’t the time or place she would’ve chosen for a confrontation, but it was going to happen. She dropped his arm, hiked up her skirts, and hurried toward where Rupert and Marcia stood near one of the grand oaks, looking confused.

Near enough to hear what was going on, far enough away to be safe, hopefully.

Where was Bull?

She stood in front of the children, blocking them from Totwafel’s view, and looked frantically for her son. Why wasn’t he here?

Totwafel walked the same way Griffin used to; full of anger and confidence he could handle whatever was thrown at him. It was scary, to think of them going up against one another.

The man had one hand inside his jacket, and the hat did little to hide his outrageous hair. Ian scurried behind him, the older man’s half-run, half-hobble not fast enough to keep up.

Totwafel halted near Duncan, making the third point of a triangle with the elderly Duke in the chair and Griffin, still glaring at him. She watched Griffin’s fists open and close, the outward sign of his anger matching his habitual scowl.

“Wilson,” he growled.

Totwafel inclined his head. “Calderbank. Surprised?”

If Griffin had been sent to kill the man, he would be surprised, but Griffin just glared. Totwafel—Wilson smirked and slid his hand into his waistcoat. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw your name on His Grace’s invitation. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Aye, I spent a lot of time and money making sure ye and yer master thought that.”

“Master?” quavered Duncan, glanced between them.

“And to be fair,” Griffin continued, “I thought ye dead.”

The orange-haired man nodded. “That’s the way Blackrose wanted it. Not even my family knows I’m still alive.”

Felicity sucked in a shocked breath.

How horrible!

Griffin must’ve agreed with her, judging from the way his expression curled in disgust. “All the agents who died over the years, their families mourning them…and ye put yers through that on purpose? Do ye have any idea of the guilt I’ve—och, never mind.”

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