Dangerous Liaison (Lords of Whitehall Book 2)

not the time to let emotion rule his actions. Moreham riffled through the desk drawers until he found a torn bit of paper. He slid the paper and an inked pen across the desk. “Write this down.”
Moreham turned his attention to the coded message. He read off the chaotic combination of letters.
If he were lucky the code would be one his code breakers had deciphered before—rendering the message readable in minutes. If not, then those same men would be working around the clock until they broke the code and revealed the message.
Moreham folded the note and returned it to Gillian. “Can you put the letter back just the way you found it? I’ll take the copy to someone who is skilled at deciphering codes such as this one.
She did as he asked and handed him the book. Neither spoke as he placed the tome in its hiding place.
“Don’t fret yet. That could be Whitney’s secret receipt for his wassail punch he offers his closest friends at Yuletide.”
“People do such a thing… Make up a code for a receipt for Christmas punch?”
Moreham winced at the hopeful sound of her voice. How he wished he could ease her fears. Instead, he put the small leather folder back in its hiding place and reseated the drawer. Whitney would never know they had found that note.
Part of Moreham wished they had not.
Gillian left him and returned to the bookshelves. She picked up the book she’d dropped only moments before and re-shelved it. She moved to another shelf but with a heavy sigh turn around. She, no doubt, knew they’d found what he’d come for.
He searched his mind for the right words to ease Gillian’s fears. All he knew at that moment was he wanted to hold her, to comfort her. Anything he said would be a lie. Gillian was no fool. She knew the ramifications of a coded missive. The slip of paper in his pocket changed everything for both of them. Gillian needed to prepare herself for the worst.
Abruptly, the night’s quiet, disappeared. Fast paced footsteps and a loud voice which sounded far too familiar for his comfort grew louder until silence again when those footsteps ceased outside the bookroom door.
He grabbed Gillian and turned his back to the door so whoever was about to open that door would not see her. She started to move away which he couldn’t allow. Moreham pulled into his embrace and held on to her. “Be still,” he growled.
His only recourse was to press his lips against her ear. Each second crept by as his fear slowed down time to snail’s pace.
Moreham knew Whitney was the one trying to get his key into the lock on that door. No doubt, the duke had imbibed a few too many glasses of port after dinner. Inebriation played havoc with one’s coordination. Moreham held onto Gillian and waited.
No doubt, Whitney would call him out for compromising his niece. The man was a duke, after all. He may not have pistols for a duel, but he did have enough money to buy the services of a crack shot. Moreham was a dead man.
He hoped Cross was close enough to realize they’d been discovered. No matter what happened in the next few minutes, he must get the copy of the note to his friend. A threat of marriage was nothing compared to being found in possession of the duke’s correspondence. Whitney would ensure he paid the ultimate price. Not a happy thought that. As for the note, time was of the essence.
“What is the meaning of this?” Whitney bellowed.
Moreham looked over his shoulder at the short man. “Your Grace, I can explain.” He made sure to tuck Gillian closer. He wanted Whitney to believe he’d interrupted a passionate tryst.
Gillian had other ideas. She pinched his arm and rushed over to her uncle. “Uncle Whitney, it’s not what it looks like.”
The duke gave her a pitying look. “My dear girl, it is always exactly as it looks.”
“Uncle Whitney, I can explain.”
“Your Grace, we wanted to be alone.”
They both spoke at the same time which gave their situation more credibility.
Moreham winced. He sounded like a greenling straight down from Cambridge in his first season, caught red-handed with deflowering on his mind.
Whitney’s eyes grew as large as marbles. The duke’s attention was centered on him.
“Moreham? Unhand my niece at once. Gillian, you will not say one word. Go to your room until your aunt and I send for you.” Whitney ordered, still not looking at her.
Gillian stiffened. “I’m staying. If I leave you alone with Moreham, you’ll do something ridiculous like to challenge him to a duel.”
Whitney’s gaze locked on the woman. “I have allowed you too much freedom, my girl.” Her uncle dropped into the chair by the fireplace and reached for the bottle of port he kept at the ready. “You said earlier your head was aching. Never thought you’d lie.” His hand shook. “Your aunt will be hysterical when she finds out about this.”
“Uncle, please give me the bottle before you drop it. This bottle of port is too good a vintage to waste you always say.” Gillian took the bottle from her uncle’s hand and poured him a goodly portion of the drink. She motioned toward one of the cabinets by the fireplace. “Moreham, look in that cabinet and get another glass. You look like you need a tot as badly as Uncle does. You are as white as a bed sheet.”
Moreham complied. He handed her his glass which she filled two fingers high. The fact she gave him less of the port than she had her uncle was not lost on him. He raised his glass in her direction in a silent toast before sampling the esteemed drink. Once his tumbler was empty, he motioned for a refill.
Whitney would not be denied. “Moreham, name your seconds. How dare you impugn my niece’s honor in my own house? I will meet you on Hampstead Heath at daybreak.”
With a speaking glance in