The Duke of York Suite

The White Hart Inn

When Hugh opened his eyes, he was in a bed. And his leg hurt like the devil. “What on earth?” he groaned, reaching over to massage the screaming muscle. Except—

Bloody hell! The bastard had tied him down.

“Oh, you’re awake.” His father’s voice. Mild and slightly . . . bored?

“I’m going to kill you,” Hugh growled. He twisted against his bindings until he saw his father sitting in a chair in the corner, watching him over a newspaper.

“It’s possible,” Lord Ramsgate said, “but not today.”

Hugh yanked again. And again, but all he got for his trouble was a chafed wrist and a serious case of vertigo. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his equilibrium. “What the hell is this about?”

Lord Ramsgate pretended to consider this. “I’m concerned,” he finally said.

“About what?” Hugh ground out.

“I fear that you are taking too long with the lovely Lady Sarah. Who knows when we shall next find a woman willing to overlook”—Lord Ramsgate’s face wrinkled with distaste—“you.”

This insult did not register. Hugh was well used to such barbs and at some point had begun to take pride in them. But his father’s comment about taking “too long” left him profoundly uneasy. “I have known Lady Sarah”—in this incarnation, at least, he added silently—“for barely two weeks.”

“Is that all? It feels like quite a bit longer. A watched pot and all that, I suppose.”

Hugh slumped. The world had clearly been turned inside out. His father, who usually ranted and raved while Hugh maintained an aloof disdain, was regarding him with nothing more than raised brows.

Hugh, on the other hand, was ready to spit nails.

“I’d hoped you’d be further along with your courtship by now,” Lord Ramsgate said, pausing to turn a page in his newspaper. “When did it all start, again? Oh, yes, that night at Fensmore. With Lady Danbury. God, she’s an old bat.”

Hugh felt ill. “How do you know this?”

Lord Ramsgate held up his hand and rubbed his fingers together. “I have people in my employ.”

“Who?”

Lord Ramsgate cocked his head, as if he was debating the wisdom of revealing this information. Then he shrugged and said, “Your valet. Might as well tell you. You would have figured it out.”

Hugh stared at the ceiling in queasy shock. “He’s been with me for two years.”

“Anyone can be bribed.” The marquess lowered the newspaper and peered over the top. “Have I taught you nothing?”

Hugh took a breath and tried to remain calm. “You need to untie me right now.”

“Not yet.” Lord Ramsgate picked up the newspaper again. “Oh, bloody hell, this wasn’t ironed.” He set the paper back down and irritably inspected his hands, now streaked with black ink. “I hate travel.”