Page 49 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
The other man had already settled onto his haunches, hand out. “Tramp, eh? I thought ye said ye werenae keeping him, Fawkes? And yet I see he has a nice bed, a shiny coat, and a fancy collar. Are ye cutting chicken for him? Smells good.”
Fawkes had pulled out leftovers from the icebox. “Aye, forhim.He, despite no’ having the sense God gave a cross-eyed frog, is welcome here. Why areyehere, again?”
“Yer master is a shite host, aye, Tramp?” Thorne crooned as he scratched the dog’s ears. “Complete dog-shite. Here I am—whoops!”
Fawkes peeked over his shoulder to see the dog had pushed Thorne over and now was trying to climb onto his chest and lick his face. Thorne—in his fancy waistcoat—did his best to block the pup’s kisses.
“Get off me! I ken I’m lovable, but—down, Tramp!”
Chuckling, Fawkes crossed the room, holding the bowl with the meat in it. “Tramp, ye wee dobber, come.”
“Ye’re chuckling. Why are ye chuckling?” Thorne asked, sitting up.
“Because he licks his own arse.”
It took a moment for Thorne to process. Then he cursed and began to wipe at his face with his sleeve, which caused Fawkes to chuckle harder.
“Why are ye here, Thorne? I have a delivery to make tonight.”
Thorne’s gaze darted to the wrapped package on the table beside the door, sitting under the dagger Fawkes had drawn when he’d knocked.
Damnation, the man missed nothing, did he?
Blackrose’s training was comprehensive, as you well ken.
“More poison, Duke?” Thorne asked nonchalantly, planting his palms on the floor and crossing his booted ankles. He looked as if he had no cares in the world, but Fawkes knew the man was all grace and cunning when it came to kicking someone’s arse. “Ye never did tell me what that potion was ye were mixing in there.”
Scowling, Fawkes threw himself into the leather chair. When Tramp abandoned his supper to jump at his knees, he pulled the pup into his lap.
“Thatpotion,ye Philistine, is a decoction of foxglove for irregular heartbeat. Auld Mister Reynald upstairs takes it regularly. So between thatpotionand the topical cream I make for his arthritis, his daughter pays me five chickens a month.”
The other man studied him, seemingly unconcerned by Fawkes’s glare. “If ye’re being paid inchickens, I can see why ye care so greatly about the state of yer glassware. What happened to yer pension?”
Fawkes’s fingers dug into Tramp’s fur until the animal yelped and he exhaled. “Sorry, lad,” he murmured, stroking him again and accepting the arse-flavored licks.
“I’m glad I could clean his tongue against my face,” Thorne said drily. “But seriously, Fawkes, what happened to yer pension?”
“I have nae pension,” Fawkes stated carefully, his attention on the dog in his lap so he wouldn’t have to meet the other man’s eyes. “I am a chemist.”
“Who specializes in poisons, aye. I ken ye’re the Duke of Death.Yeken I ken ye’re the Duke of Death. I ken ye ken I ken ye’re the Duke—”
“I didnae ken baboons could reason so well,” Fawkes interrupted. “Send for the zoo.”
“Look, if ye’re going to call me a primate, at least make me something noble.”
Fawkes risked glancing at the other man, who seemed perfectly at ease on the floor of his parlor. “A lemur. An orangutan.”
“I was thinking a silverback gorilla.” The blond man ran a palm down his fancy waistcoat. “Majestic, strong, regal, and—”
“Throws his own shite,” Fawkes finished.
“Do they indeed?” The other man blinked in surprise, lips curling. “I thought that was chimpanzees.”
“Why are ye here, Thorne?”
The viscount in his parlor—which, postscript, sounded like a book title—merely chuckled and rolled to his feet, only to flop down atop the sofa.
The sofa which Fawkes hadn’t sat on in a week, since he’d felt Ellie’s arousal spill across his face and he’d come in his trousers.
