“Richard Huntley?” he said. His dark gaze scoured her, fingers still clamped over her arms, though not cruelly. Ravenna forced herself not to fidget or break eye contact. She needed him to believe her.

“I saw you once at Embry Hall,” she rushed out, panic overtaking her explanation. “His sister called you ‘Cordy’ and he said you were the duke’s grandson.”

“His sister.”

Her body quivered. Gracious, was that a question or some kind of proclamation? Ravenna almost swore aloud and clamped her mouth shut, well aware of the obvious relation between her fake male name and her real one. It wasn’t much of a stretch to connect Raven and Ravenna. Deuce it, how could she have been so stupid? The real question was: would he notice? The Cordy she’d known might have been lacking in muscle as a boy, but he’d never lacked for acuity. She doubted that would have changed as an adult.

“Your Grace,” a harried-looking man with his hair and spectacles askew burst through the door and interrupted them. “It’s madness in there. Bingham is waiting.”

Rawley, the large man from before, entered the room with a nod. “I’m afraid you can’t hide much longer, old friend. The gossip is like a bushfire…already rampant and impossible to contain.” His gaze came to rest on Ravenna. “I can ferry this one to the stocks.”

The man who clearly did not want to be duke ran a palm over his face and nodded to his man. “Very well. Escort Bingham to the library adjoining the office first. I’ll be along shortly.” He then turned brutally cold eyes on her. “It doesn’t matter who you are or how you know me. Cheaters are a disgrace, and the piper must be paid. I have to make an example of you, young buck, and I reckon you’d much rather a harmless night in the stalls than the loss of a finger.”

“Take it,” Ravenna blurted out, though her body trembled almost violently. A paltry finger was much less of a price to pay than being unmasked as a lady of quality or being thrown into a filthy jail.

“You jest,” he said with a long-suffering look.

“I do not. Take. My. Finger.”

“No.”

“Then let me go. You cannot accuse me of thievery without proof.” In response, Ashvale skimmed up her forearms as if attempting to feel beneath her sleeves for evidence. “I didn’t cheat, Your Grace.”

She spat the title with a mouthful of mockery, enjoying the tightening of his face and the ashen cast to his sun-kissed skin. A part of her wondered why he was so against being duke. It was his birthright, and one of privilege and power. No gentleman of sound mind would refuse a coronet, and yet, he seemed to loathe the very idea.