Page 90 of His Arranged Duchess
“She writes romance novels, you know.”
Benjamin tilted his head. “Really? How interesting. Well, since her reputation is already in tatters, she might as well try publishing a few.”
Lucien grimaced. “They’re rather… ratherwarm, you know. Perhaps a pseudonym would be a good idea.”
A slow grin broke out across Benjamin’s face. “Warm romance stories? Heavens. Just when I think I couldn’t learn to like your duchess more. Congratulate her from me, won’t you? Once you’ve reconciled.”
“Ifwe reconcile. First, there’s a small matter I must take care of.”
“Oh?”
Lucien nodded, stepping back towards his friend. The anger was coming back, hot enough to make him shake with rage. This time, it was not directed towards Benjamin. It was not Benjamin who’d hurt Frances; at least, not intentionally.
Lucien had already decided that he would not cut off his old friend. Benjamin had acted badly, yes, but so had Lucien. If Benjamin could come to terms with Frances’s new place in Lucien’s life—and if he could keep away cloying ladies who sought after his favor—then there was no reason why they could not be as close as ever.
But that was a conversation for another time. For now, Lucien contented himself with a warm smile, which Benjamintentatively returned. Placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder, Lucien leaned closer to him.
“Do you have Lord Easton’s address, Benjamin? I would like to pay a call on him. Now.”
Benjamin pursed his lips, visibly amused. “I can certainly direct you towards him. By the way, my nose wasnotbroken after your hurtful attack last night. I shall forgive you, presuming that you deliver an equally impressive punch to the real villain of this whole story.”
Lucien chuckled, low and menacing. There was no mirth in the laughter, and already his heart was thumping against his chest, getting ready for action.
There’s going to be a reckoning, to be sure. This matter is not nearly over.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said aloud.
CHAPTER 29
Lord Easton’s house was a little more dilapidated than Lucien had expected. It was an old house in a well-established part of London, but it had clearly not been maintained properly for some time. The plaster was chipping, some of the windows were boarded up, and there were visible gaps in the roof where tiles had come away.
Buoyed by righteous fury, Lucien strode towards the front door, seized the knocker, and rapped hard.
Silence.
Clenching his jaw, he knocked again and then tried the doorknob. It was locked, of course.
At last, a faint shuffling sound came from the other side of the door, and a weak, elderly voice answered.
“Who is it, please?”
“My name is Lucien Russell, the Duke of Blackstone. Let me in, please.”
There was a brief silence.
“Is Lord Easton expecting you, Your Grace?”
Lucien smiled grimly. “He’s acquainted with me.”
Somebody whispered on the other side of the door, sibilant and urgent. Flinching, Lucien leaned closer, trying to hear what was being said, but couldn’t make out any individual words.
The old man on the other side, whoever he was, cleared his throat.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace, but Lord Easton is not at home.”
Lucien wanted to laugh.
“What is your name, sir? I assume you’re the butler,” he said.
