Rhystan’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a smile that no sane person would mistake for friendly. “You will address me with the proper respect, Talbot. I am the Duke of Embry.”

“Apologies, Duke. I’ve only just returned to England.”

Rhystan knew without a doubt that the earl would have been aware of his altered circumstances after his father’s death. The tragedy had been the news of London for months. The false ignorance was a deliberate slight, that Talbot still saw him as that weak, green lad of an officer. Well, he wasn’t that boy anymore, nor was he the normal kind of duke.

He let his rage show in his eyes. “Walk. Away.”

The earl’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Do you really wish for me to elucidate?” His voice lowered to a snarl. “Walk the hell away, Talbot.”

“Please, Your Grace,” Sarani whispered, touching his sleeve. “Don’t make a scene, for Ravenna’s sake, if not mine. It’s what he wants.”

“Always so clever,” Talbot said, his eyes pinning her. “We looked for you, you know, after your father’s body was discovered. Such a pity.” His sly tone indicated it was anything but, and Rhystan felt Sarani stiffen beside him. “It was speculated that you’d been taken, but the new maharaja insisted you were dead.”

“The new maharaja,” Sarani echoed.

“Your cousin Vikram.” He rolled his eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. “Though who knows with you natives and your falsifying of heirs willy-nilly to keep it in the family.” His voice lowered. “Then again, he isn’t precisely the actual heir, is he, Princess Sarani?”

Sarani gasped, her eyes darting to the ballroom where people were craning their necks without shame, and she took a step closer to Rhystan without realizing it. He wanted to comfort her, reassure her that they could not hear, but he did not move a muscle, his stare narrowing on Talbot. He opened his mouth but Sarani spoke first.

“Why are you here, Lord Talbot?”

“Vice Admiral Markham… You remember your superior officer, don’t you, Your Grace?” Talbot said. “Shall we say that I received the most interesting piece of correspondence requiring my immediate presence in London.”

Rhystan’s fists clenched at the mention of both Markham and a letter. The story of his life was apparently repeating itself. This time, he knew that the culprit had to be his own meddlesome mother. Who else would make those connections between the present and his past? He would wring her interfering neck. Right after he dealt with this conniving piece of shit.

The earl went on, oblivious to his impending fate. “It inquired about an English lady, but strangely enough, including a locket with a miniature resembling”—his calculating gaze slid to Sarani—“none other than you.”

“A miniature?” Rhystan’s heart pounded, remembering the robbery at his residence. The thief must have been commissioned to seek out only the locket.