Page 51 of Stolen By the Cruel Duke
“You should know I’ve already sent Jones to fetch the Bow Street Runners,” he warned, spittle flying from his mouth and landing on her cheeks. With as much dignity as possible, she wiped it away.
“If anyone should call the Bow Street Runners, it’s me. I know what you did.”
“Oh?” The Viscount raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”
“You hired ruffians to ransack and rob the Duke’s house.Myhouse.”
Her father sneered. “Yes, I heard about the break-in. I trust nothing important was taken?”
“Just some… precious items,” she replied, watching his face for a reaction. He gave none.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But if you’ve come here with empty accusations of my involvement, then I have no time for you. You have no evidence that I did such a thing. Your husband has many enemies, and any number of them could have staged a robbery.”
Iris rolled her eyes. At the same time, her father’s mouth opened slightly. In all her years, she had never rolled her eyes at her father—or done anything so disobedient and unladylike—and it was worth it for the shock on his face.
“I know it was you,” she affirmed. “But I didn’t come here to argue the point.”
Lord Carfield folded his hands in front of his chest. “Then why did you come here?”
“I came here to make a deal with you.”
Her father blinked. She’d caught him off guard, she knew, and she relished the momentary confusion that flickered across his face. He took a step back and surveyed her, his eyes crawling upand down her frame as if looking for some secret that might be hidden in her person.
“Why would I make a deal with you, when I am, so far, winning in my battle against you and your husband?”
“Are you winning, though?” Iris smiled serenely. “Because, as I’m sure you know, I recently reconnected with my mother. And she had some very interesting things to tell me.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that you had the late Duke and Duchess of Eavestone murdered.”
There was a beat, during which the hall seemed to ring with the weight of her accusation. Her father continued to gaze at her, a calculating expression on his face. At last, he shifted.
“What a preposterous accusation,” he said smoothly. “I’m assuming your mother hasevidenceproving this?”
“Yes, she does,” Iris lied.
She kept her cool, her eyes wide and innocent, but she could feel sweat beading on the back of her neck.
“Oh?” Her father seemed wholly unconcerned. “And what exactly does she have?”
“A letter, from you to the man you hired, detailing your crime.”
The Viscount smiled. It was a cold, cruel smile. “That isn’t possible, as I never sent any letter to the man who killed the late Duke of Eavestone.”
“It is possible, and I have the letter.”
Her father narrowed his eyes. “And here I thought that such precious items had been stolen from the Duke’s residence.”
“The one that was stolen was a copy,” Iris said with a shrug. “Not the original.”
For a split second, her father’s facade cracked, and the briefest hint of doubt flashed across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by cool indifference.
“If that were true,” he countered, “then you wouldn’t be here telling me about it. You’d be using it to try and ruin me.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here.” Iris squared her shoulders again and raised her chin in defiance. “I am ready to give you back the original letter if you help me.”
Her father stared at her. “Help you?” he repeated.
