Page 24 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
But…
Thorne dropped two sugars into the fresh tea then sipped it, glad for the warmth it spread through him.
Kitwasn’this friend. But last night…he’d needed a friend, and Kit had cared for him.
Not only had the lad listened, he’d shared his own struggles and hopes with Thorne.
What was that, if not friendship?
Fine, alright, yer friends with yer valet. Now explain the hand-frigging and the…the cuddling.
He couldn’t.
Thorne shuddered, remembering the pleasure rippling down his spine at the way the lad had scratched his scalp, his hair. Remembering the intensereliefwhich had come as he’d spent across his hands, following Kit’s instructions.
He’s yer valet. No’ your friend. No’ yer lover.
Thorne’s friends didnotbecome his lovers, and his lovers didnotbecome his friends.
Aye, well, where dovaletsstand in yer hierarchy of relationships?
He’d never wanted to fook his valet before.
He’d never wanted to call his valet ‘friend’, either.
The last thing he needed, in the middle of this desperateattempt to bring Blackrose to justice, was a moral conundrum distraction.
Well, nay, thelastthing he needed was a rampaging hippopotamus breaking through his front door. Or being forced at knifepoint to learn to play golf. Or an infected tooth leading to a brain spasm.
In fact, in the grand scheme of things, “moral conundrum” didn’t sound so bad after all.
Fook it.
Shaking his head, Thorne reached for the correspondence. He was already late, and today’s post was waiting. The bills were sent to his man of business, so these were…
Invitation. Invitation. Hmm, this one’s from the Highlands, likely one of the stewards complaining about something. What’s this?
A thick envelope with the royal seal. He didn’t recognize the looping writing, but if it really was from a member of the royal family—not completely unbelievable, with his connections—it might’ve been addressed by an underling. Thorne tapped the envelope against his pursed lips, considering what it might entail, as he sifted through the rest of the—
Familiar handwriting caught his eye, and he sucked in a breath of excitement in his hurry to tear open the new envelope.
Fawkes’s message was blunt and succinct, just like the man:
Ellie had a thought.Arrived in London too late to discuss, I’ll be over first thing Tuesday. I’m staying with you.
A thought?
Frowning, Thorne flipped the card over, wondering if there were any other clues.
Tuesday was today—he glanced at the clock. HopefullyFawkes would arrive soon, because not only was his wife Danielle a genius, but she was Blackrose’s niece. If she’d had a thought important enough to send Fawkes from the estate he’d inherited from the last Duke of Stroken, leaving his wife, mother, and adored stepdaughter in Scotland…then it was a damned important thought.
One that couldn’t safely be written down.
Right on cue, there was a knock at the front door.
Thorne yanked the napkin from his lap but didn’t manage to beat Titsworth to the foyer. “The Duke is not accepting visitors this morning, sir,” the not-quite-elderly man intoned. “Who shall I say—”
“Fawkes! Damned good to see ye!” Thorne called out.
