He had deployed the three Runners in strategic spots around his house, each with a particular assignment, but upon reading the words now etched indelibly on his mind, he began to think three men were not enough.

Hell, a small army wouldn’t be enough to protect his beloved Gillian. He thought of how she’d looked that morning when he managed to drag himself from his bed—on her back, her hair cascading a fiery path over the white linens, a rosy glow to her cheeks and a smile on her face as she slept the sleep of the well-loved.

He made a mental note to have his man purchase more of the Oils of Araby before considering again the problem of that murdering bastard McGregor. Could Harry be right in his suggestion that the real culprit might be someone other than the Scot? And if so, who? Who hated him enough to try to destroy first his marriage and now Gillian?

Gillian. Just as soon as he made sure she was in good health, he would take her upstairs and introduce her to more of the items on his list. For her security, of course, not for his own base pleasure—if he kept her so exhausted that she was unable to leave his bed, he’d have little worry that McGregor or any other murdering bastard could make good his threat and kill her. It was, after all, his duty to keep her safe, and if this was the only way he could do so…he grinned to himself as he acknowledged that the merits of such a plan were almost unlimited.

“Lord Weston!”

Noble frowned at the footman blocking the door. His door, by God. “Yes, it’s Lord Weston, and he’d like to enter his house. Stand aside, Charles.”

“But, my lord—we thought you were out for the day.”

“Well, now I’m home. Is Lady Weston in?”

Charles blanched and stepped back when Noble pushed past him. Tremayne wandered into the hall, saw the earl, gawked for a moment, and, with a stammered excuse, spun around and dashed for the green baize door.

Noble frowned. What the devil had bit his servants?

“Lady Weston?” Noble reminded the pale Charles as he stripped off his hat and gloves.

“Er…Lady Weston?”

“Yes. Where is she?”

Charles swallowed twice and continued to stare at Noble with a chalky face.

“Are you ill, man?”

“No, my lord.”

“Excellent. Then you can tell me whether my wife is at home.”

“Ah…”

“Yer Lordship! Yer ’ome early!” Crouch shot through the door leading to the servant’s domain so quickly he was forced to grab Noble as he skidded to a halt on the well-polished parquet floor. “Eh, sorry about that, m’lord. I’ll ’ave one of the maids sew that up.”

Noble glared at the small hole in his sleeve where Crouch’s hook had snagged itself. “Where is my wife?”

“Yer wife?” Crouch looked confused. “What wife would that be, m’lord?”

“The same wife who you have, for the past week, been dancing attendance upon. Where is she? Has she gone out?”