Page 83 of Tamed By her Duke

Grace looked at the small object in his hand and shook her head ruefully.

“If this isn’t an object lesson in why you should treat your servants kindly, I don’t know what is,” she said, half to herself.

They only dared light a single candle—something that Caleb had also stowed away in his pockets. A plaid was useful for hiding a multitude of things that the tight tailoring of current Englishfashions would never conceal. He didn’t know if Graham was the kind of man who noticed the level that his candles had been burned, or how much oil was left in a lantern, but somehow Caleb suspected that he was. Graham seemed like the kind of person who would be on perpetual lookout for any hint that his iron-fisted control wasn’t being respected as he believed it ought to be.

Caleb lit the short candle with a match—also from his pockets—and wedged it into a candlestick that already sat on the desk, reminding himself to replace the original candle before they left.

Caleb noted everything before he touched it—the placement of the papers in the drawer, where each pen sat—and reminded Grace to keep the pages in order before he slid half the pile over to her.

They read, side by side, for several minutes.

Graham, Caleb learned in that time, was double-dealing with several of his fellow Parliamentarians. He’d promised Lord Ogleby, for example, that he absolutely wouldnotparlay with the Earl of Minster, and in the next letter swore to Minster that he’d naught to do with Ogleby.

He was, moreover, not faithful to his wife—though Caleb hadn’t really expected otherwise. He did arch an eyebrow at thehighlyexplicit nature of the letters between Graham and a young actress currently making quite the name for herself on the London stage.

As he hastily put those letters aside, he was pleased to see that Grace was squinting at a column of figures, not looking at what Caleb was doing. Nobody needed to think of their father likethat.

It was the documents nearly at the bottom of the pile, however, that made Caleb pause, made him struggle not to react.

“Grace,” he said slowly. “I need ye to go find yer brother,leannan.”

She jerked hard enough, startled from her task, that she nearly touched the paper in her hand to the flickering flame. She set it hastily down in her pile before reaching for the document he held.

Caleb shifted subtly away from her, watched as her hand froze in midair.

“Caleb,” she said, and there was already a tremor in your voice. “What did you find?”

This was not the time or place and so Caleb hoped that just this once, she would listen.

“Leannan,” he said, voice hard and serious. “Ye need to find yer brother right now and tell him to do as I bid him.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, a flurry of emotions dancing through her expressive eyes—worry, irritation, and bone-deep fear. It was this last one why he needed her gone.

It was his job to protect her. He would do whatever it took to protect her, even if she grew angry with him for it.

At last she nodded.

“Yes, right,” she said. “I’ll find him. I’ll tell him.”

Caleb’s sigh of air was heavy with relief.

“Thank you,leannan.”

She looked startled and he realized he’d likely never thanked her before. But now was not the time for that, either. He saw her banish her surprise, saw how she squared her shoulders as if preparing for battle.

His warrior. The girl who survived, who came back stronger. She’d done it when she was alone, and she’d damn well do it now that she had him at her back, ready to fight for her, protect her.

He’d kill for her, if it came to that.

He followed her as she crossed to the door, pressing a quick kiss to her knuckles before she departed.

And when her footsteps faded into the dark hallway, he did not close the door behind her.

Instead, he crossed back to the desk, stole a cigar that he’d noted out of the drawer, and used the candle flame to light it. Then, puffing until the tobacco caught, he lit a lantern, turned it up to its fullest blaze. He leaned back in the chair, draped in a casual posture intensely at odds with the churning rage inside him.

And then he waited.

It didn’t take long; the cigar was fragrant, and the air quickly grew redolent with smoke. The light spilled into the hallway. And the Duke of Graham was not the kind of man who relaxed his guard, not even when his home was full of hundreds of London’s wealthiest residents. A servant would notice, would report to their master. And then he would come.

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