Page 78 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra said, jogging the cat on her bosom. “I never dreamed they would come.”

“They seem fond of Newell.”

“He has become like an uncle to them. It’s terribly inappropriate, I know, but I am busy and we cannot keep a governess.”

“Why not? It cannot be a case of money.”

“It’s more a case of Lucy.” She sighed. “I’ll take them home. Maybe between us, Mr. Newell and I will be able to herd them into a carriage.”

Take them home. Which meant she would leave too, and finally, finally, his life would be back to normal.

Excellent.

“They may as well stay, now they’re here,” he said. “And you do need to marry her off. Let’s launch her right away.”

She glanced up, surprised. “Surely even you recognize that she said shocking things. She is not ready for society.”

“She isperfectlyready for society. The question is whether society is ready for her.”

She groaned. “You want to make trouble. That’s why you’re suddenly so amenable.”

“My dear Mrs. DeWitt! When did you become so cynical? I am merely offering you my support in finding her a husband.” He enjoyed her skeptical, exasperated look. “What a shame the Regent needs no wife, for your Lucy would make a magnificent queen and lead the kingdom into chaos in no time.”

She gave a wan smile. “If only she could find someone who…understands her and loves her and makes her happy. She is not bad, only…” She sighed again. “It’s the least that she deserves.”

It was the least that Cassandra deserved too. But, instead, all she had was him.

Yet even after what he had done to her last night, she had stood by him today, teasing him, flirting with him, comforting him over Das’s betrayal.

“Buchanan,” he said abruptly, his mind leaping into action. “You were right.”

She looked confused. “Who or what is Buchanan?”

“Former junior secretary. Smart, but lazy. He had access to that information—and he resigned recently. All fits.” He planted a kiss on her forehead and grinned at her. “You’re a treasure. Das!”

He whipped away from her, to where Das and Isaac stood outside the door, regarding him warily.

“It’s Buchanan!” he said to Das. “Let’s go cut off his kneecaps.”

It wasn’t much of an apology, but Das seemed to understand. “With pleasure,” he said.

“And Isaac. Make yourself useful, won’t you? Find these witnesses and get the truth out of them. Money, fists, charm: Use whatever works.”

Joshua handed the list of names to Isaac and twisted the letters in his hand. Cassandra stood in the doorway, cat still in her arms, eyes on the letters. Then she pasted on that cursed oh-so-nice-and-polite smile, averted her eyes, and swept off toward the stairs.

“Excuse me,” she said, brushing past him. “I must get Mr. Twit settled and fed.”

He watched her go, up to her bedroom, he supposed. He should tell her about the letters. She would understand. The world would not end. The memories would not crumble into dust. She had a right to know.

He turned back to Das.

“Cassandra’s grandfather, the Duke of Sherbourne—he makes a pretty penny from his investments with me, doesn’t he?”

Das cast him a thoughtful look. “Indeed. You have helped swell his coffers considerably.”

“Yet when my wife sought help from his wife, the duchess was not helpful. Not sure I can continue partnering with a man whose wife treats my wife so shabbily. I shall have to call on him and let him know that. Let’s arrange that.”

“Good idea.”

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