Page 6 of Wedded to the Duke of Seduction

Huntley’s face flushed an ugly red. “That’s rich, coming from you. The Duke who left England rather than face the consequences of his actions.”

“Careful, Huntley,” Noah warned, but the drunk lord was beyond listening.

“Why should I be careful?” Huntley’s voice rose, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “We all know what he did. Murdered his own brother in a fit of jealous rage, didn’t he? Then, he ran off to the continent to escape justice. And now we have these charming little tales about his inclinations making the rounds.”

Leo remained perfectly still, only the tightening of his jaw betraying his rage.

“I heard he strangled the girl first,” called another voice—Leo recognized Pembrooke’s younger son, a dissolute gambler known for his cruel tongue. “That’s why they never found her body.”

“Quite inventive with the ladies in other ways too, if these stories are to be believed,” added a third voice, followed by several snickers.

Leo rose to his full height, his movement deliberate and deadly silent. The brandy glass in his hand made a soft thud as he set it down with exquisite care.

“Since you seem so interested in murder, Huntley,” he said, his voice dropping to a register that made several men sit back, “perhaps you’d like to discover for yourself how I might go about it.”

A hush fell over the room. Huntley’s companions suddenly found the floor, their drinks, or the walls fascinating.

“I-I meant no offense, Your Grace.” Huntley stumbled backward, nearly colliding with a card table. “I am simply repeating what others have said?—”

“Then I suggest,” Leo hissed, taking one step forward that made Huntley retreat three, “you find something else to occupy your tongue before I decide to remove it.”

The crowd parted like the sea as Huntley fled, several of his companions trailing in his wake. A few others nodded respectfully to Leo as conversation gradually resumed, albeit with a nervous energy that hadn’t been present before.

Leo took his seat with the same quiet stillness with which he had risen though his knuckles were white as he picked up his glass.

He was used to the whispers and the sidelong glances. But this was different—more pointed, more personal. The stories had breathed new life into old rumors, painting him as both murderer and libertine.

“That went well,” Noah observed dryly, signaling for another bottle. “Though I believe you just confirmed every dark suspicion Huntley and his ilk hold about your temperament.”

“Let them think what they will.” Leo’s voice was flat. “It makes little difference now.”

But it made a difference—that was the damnable part of it all. Ten years of searching for William, of trying to clear his name and restore his family’s honor, and now, these stories threatened to undo it all. Whoever this mysterious author was, they did not know the damage they were causing—or perhaps they did, and that was the most troubling thought of all.

Noah reached into his coat and withdrew a slim pamphlet. “Speaking of which, you might want to see this.”

Leo took the offered pages. His expression darkened as he read. The story’s hero—Sebastian Ravencroft—bore more than a passing resemblance to himself, down to a peculiar scar on his left shoulder, but it was the encounter in a darkened parlor that made his blood run cold.

“Where did you get this?” The paper crackled in his tightening grip.

The familiar scent of jasmine.

That was the line that had struck him first—the detail too intimate, too precise to be coincidence. Felicity had always worn jasmine perfume. She wore it behind her ears, at her wrists, between her?—

Leo forced the memory away.

When his father had threatened to disown him, to cut off William as well if Leo persisted in his “unsuitable attachment”, he had chosen duty over desire. He’d told himself it was for the best—that the passion he felt for Felicity would fade with time.

Leo shook himself from the reverie, the pamphlet crumpling further in his grasp. The author of these stories knew details only a handful of people could know. Whoever they were, they had either been remarkably well-informed by one of his former companions, or…

“Noah,” he said, his voice dangerously controlled, “I need to know who’s writing these stories. Now.”

“They are being sold all over London.” Noah signaled for his hat. “But I made some inquiries—well, paid for them really. The printer’s assistant was quite forthcoming after a few guineaswarmed his palm. Says a woman delivers the manuscripts late at night.”

Leo stood abruptly. “Which printer?”

“Lupton’s off of Fleet Street. But surely, you’re not thinking about?—”

“Show me.”

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