Page 63 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Drago sat her in the chair to the right of his place at the head of the table.
She glanced at the only other place set, opposite her. As Drago took his seat, she arched her brows at him. “Your mother and Mrs. Weekes?”
Drago glanced down the expanse of empty table. “Apparently not in. I daresay they’ll be out at some luncheon or other.”
Meg nodded, then looked up to thank Prentiss as he served the soup.
She and Drago were quietly supping the excellent celery soup when confident footsteps crossed the hall.
The next instant, Denton appeared in the doorway.
Drago watched as his brother’s face lit with obviously genuine pleasure.
“Meg!” Smiling with his own brand of charm, Denton came down the table to take the hand Meg offered and bow over it. “It’s a delight to see you here, enlivening our otherwise dour brotherly meal.”
With a genial nod to Drago, Denton rounded the carver and dropped into the chair on Drago’s left. “Have you been out braving the dowagers in the park?”
“No, as a matter of fact.” Meg waited until Denton had been served and Prentiss left the room to ferry the soup tureen back to the kitchen. “We went to visit my old governess in Manchester Street.” She caught Denton’s gaze and arched her brows. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
The look of complete and utter puzzlement that descended on Denton’s face—whose features were far easier to read than his brother’s—could not have been faked.
Denton stared at her. “I…had no idea that your old governess lived in Manchester Street.” Patently at sea, he glanced at Drago. “Should I have known? Was she Mel’s governess before Meg’s or…something like that?”
Obviously struggling to keep his lips straight, Drago said, “What Meg has omitted to mention is that on leaving her governess’s building, we were set upon by two thugs.”
“With knives,” Meg supplied.
“Luckily,” Drago smoothly continued, “I had Papa’s swordstick, and they got the worst of the encounter.”
“Good Lord!” Stunned, Denton looked from Drago to Meg and back again. “A knife attack in broad daylight, virtually in Mayfair?”
Drago studied Denton’s face, then looked at Meg and arched a laconic brow.
She sighed and pushed her empty soup plate away. “You’re right. It isn’t him.”
Denton was still confused. “What isn’t?”
Drago’s brow lifted again, and Meg inwardly sighed and explained her reasoning that the motive behind the attacks might have something to do with the dukedom’s succession. “But obviously, it’s not you behind the attacks.”
Instead of being incensed over being suspected, Denton had fixed on a different point. “Twoattacks?” He stared at Drago, then, his jaw setting, looked across the table at Meg. “It isn’t me—which I’m glad you realize—but that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.” He, too, looked at Drago with concern. “I’m your immediate heir, but if you were to die in some fashion that implicated me in your death…”
Meg looked at Drago. “Who would inherit then?”
Drago looked from one to the other, then reluctantly conceded, “Warley. He’s next in line.”
“Exactly. And as you very well know, our dear uncle is perennially short of the ready.” Denton tossed up his hands. “Who knows what he might have got himself into? Creditors snapping at his heels or worse.”
Drago warned the other two to silence as Prentiss returned, followed by two footmen, all carrying platters of various delicacies, cold meats, and fruit. Once the dishes were laid before them and their soup plates removed, Drago signaled to Prentiss to leave them and close the door.
The instant the latch clicked, Denton added, “And don’t forget what Warley said when he first heard of your engagement.”
Meg looked at Denton. “What did he say?”
“That he was relieved that Drago had taken the plunge and finally decided to marry, but that even with you being a Cynster, he wouldn’t be surprised if the marriage never actually occurred.”
Drago swallowed a sigh and met Meg’s pointed gaze. “Yes, he said that, but first, that was before he met you, and second, Warley is a confirmed misogamist.”
She frowned. “He hates marriage?”
