His man of affairs and second cousin, Rawley was a large, brown-skinned man with a razor-sharp wit and a quick brain that outmatched many. Blessed with both brain and brawn, Courtland had hired him years before, and now, he trusted him with his life.

“No, wait,” Hunt pleaded. “Please.”

Someone in the crowd jeered. “If you have nothing to hide, take it off.”

In the next moment, Rawley yanked the coat off the boy’s shoulders, buttons popping. A high-pitched yelp tore from the boy as the plain waistcoat went next, leaving him standing there in a linen shirt, hastily knotted cravat, and trousers. His narrow frame shook, shoulders hunching forward, arms crossed over his middle.

“Please, cease this,” he begged in a plaintive whisper. “You don’t understand.”

Courtland hesitated at the hushed desperation in the boy’s voice. It wasn’t in him to publicly shame someone this young who might have made a mistake and could learn a valuable lesson, and besides, he liked the boy’s spirit. However, before he could order Rawley to take him to his private office, his burly factotum, Fawkes, shoved through the crowd. He was closely followed by a perspiring, balding, well-heeled man.

“What is it, Fawkes?”

“Mr. Chase. An urgent messenger has arrived.” The man was fairly bursting with news, and a dribble of unease slid down Courtland’s spine. “From London. From—”

“Your Grace,” the unknown man said in a loud voice, and every muscle in Courtland’s body solidified to stone. “I’m Mr. Bingham, the private solicitor of the late duke, your grandfather, His Grace, the Duke of Ashvale, God rest his soul. As your grandfather’s eldest heir, you’ve now been named duke. However, the will is being contested, claiming you are deceased, though clearly, my eyes attest that you are not.”

Thunder roared in Courtland’s ears. This was not bloody happening.

For all intents and purposes Lord Courtland Chase, the rightful Marquess of Borne, was dead. But the damage was done. Amid the chatter now soaring to the rooftop, he opened his mouth to say what Bingham could do with the title and the rest of his message, but was thwarted by the young thief who now seemed to have lost half his mustache and was gawking at him with wide, incredulous eyes that burned with an unnaturally disturbing degree of emotion. Not shock or wonder or even awe like everyone else in the room, but…recognition.

“Cordy?” the boy whispered.

Courtland hadn’t heard that name in well over a decade, but it was a like a punch to the chest, more powerful, deadly even, than the wallop about him being duke. No one had ever called him Cordy…no one except…

His jaw hardened, confusion pouring through him. “Who the fuck are you?”

Two