The two men locked eyes, and a silent truce was met. They would travel to the inn together. They would not ask questions, they would not offer opinions…Hell, they would not even speak unless absolutely necessary.

Which suited Thomas perfectly.

Chapter 7

Your eye’s gone black.”

That was the first thing Audley said to him on the journey, nearly an hour after they’d departed.

Thomas turned and looked at him. “Your cheek is purple.”

They were almost to the posting inn where Audley had his belongings stashed, and so they had slowed their gait down to a walk. Audley was riding one of the horses from the Belgrave stables; he was, Thomas could not help but note, an extremely accomplished rider.

Audley touched his cheek, and not with any delicacy. He patted it briskly, the three central fingers of his right hand. “It’s nothing,” he said, apparently assessing the injury. “Certainly not as bad as your eye.”

Thomas gave him a haughty look. Because, really, how could he know? The cheek was purple, quite lividly so.

Audley looked at him with remarkable blandness, then said, “I have been shot in the arm and stabbed in the leg. And you?”

Thomas said nothing. But he felt his teeth clenching together, and he was painfully aware of the sound of his breath.

“The cheek is nothing,” Audley said again, and he looked forward anew, his eyes focusing on the bend in the road, just up ahead.

They were nearly to the posting inn. Thomas knew the area well. Hell, he owned half of it.

Or thought he owned it. Who knew any longer? Maybe he wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham. What would it mean if he was merely another random Cavendish cousin? There were certainly enough of them. Maybe not as first relations, but the country was positively awash with seconds and thirds.

It was an interesting question. Interesting, of course, being the only word he could use that did not make him want to explode in mad laughter. If he wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham, who the hell was he? Did he own anything? Have a stick or stone or rubbly little patch of land to call his own?

Was he even still betrothed to Amelia?

Good God. He looked over his shoulder at Audley, who, damn him, looked cool and unperturbed as he stared at the horizon.

Would he get her? Lands, title, every last penny in his accounts—tally ho, mateys! Let’s toss in the fiancée while we’re at it.

And judging from Grace’s reaction to the annoying sod, Amelia would be head over heels for him at first sight.

He snorted in exasperation. If the day descended any further, he’d reach the seventh level of hell before nightfall. “I’m getting a pint,” he announced.

“Of ale?” Audley asked in surprise, as if he could not imagine the Duke of Wyndham drinking anything so plebeian.