Dangerous Liaison (Lords of Whitehall Book 2)

his direction, Gillian crossed over to her uncle’s side and replenished his glass. This time with even more port than she had the first time. Looking thoroughly disgusted with her relative, she set the bottle on the sideboard well out of his reach.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Uncle. You arrived before the earl even kissed me. Look at me. Do I look as though I have been kissing anyone?”
“Your Grace, you misunderstand the circumstances. I wanted a quiet place to propose marriage to Lady Gillian.”
Unfortunately, he’d not thought before speaking or he’d have waited until the duke had swallowed his port. The duke sputtered and sprayed his port down the front of his shirt. No man liked to waste good liquor.
The duke brushed at his now wet cravat and shirt before giving up and turning his attention to Gillian. “Well, gel, what do you have to say to Moreham?”
Moreham crossed two of his fingers and hoped the hellion would give credence to his ruse.
Why hadn’t he remained behind his desk and left the sleuthing to Cross and Sturm? Cross had never landed in such a pickle. Never been within smelling distance of a bride. He, however, had ventured out for one evening and ended up proposing to a duke’s niece. He dared not think what his mother would say.
Married? He looked over at Gillian and decided if the displeasure he saw in her eyes was an indication, his intended was no happier about the prospect than he was. He hoped the bit of foolscap in his pocket was worth the sacrifice required of them both.
“Uncle, you always said I could marry where I chose. I choose Moreham. He is titled which should please Aunt Isadora and is in possession of substantial wealth or so everyone in Society has said often enough. You’ve always said you wanted me to marry a gentleman who valued me. At this moment, Moreham has made his feelings known to me and I am satisfied as to our future together.”
The duke looked at her as if she had taken leave of all good sense. Moreham felt sorry for the man. Whitney didn’t stand a chance against a determined Gillian. Then the truth hit him like a shovel to the face. He was the one who’d never stood a chance.
The dejected duke slumped in his chair. Moreham removed the now empty glass from the man’s hand. “He’s out cold.”
Gillian joined him, taking both tumblers from him. “Yes, well, unfortunately to my uncle’s horror, he has difficulty in holding his liquor. Especially this aged vintage of port. I’m sure your tasting of the brew confirms its potency.”
Moreham motioned for Gillian to follow him out into the corridor. “What do we do now?” he asked.
“You should leave. The ballroom is at the end of the corridor. The garden door is to the left. You’ll recognize it. Once you are gone, I’ll ring for the butler. He’ll have a pair of footmen carry Uncle Whitney upstairs to bed. Only now am I realizing, the footmen have been performing that duty far too often for the last month. He’d be appalled if he knew I had witnessed him in such a state. That bottle of port is a special vintage. Meant to be sipped. You both have been tossing the drink back like sailors on shore leave swilling rotgut gin. Will you be able to find your way through the garden? I am sure you are anxious to be off.”
Moreham didn’t know how he felt about being dismissed. “I’ll remain until the butler arrives.”
Gillian huffed but remained silent as she reentered the room and gave the bell pull a solid two tugs. Within minutes a black-suited servant appeared.
“The duke is very tired. Have the usual footmen provide their assistance. His valet will be waiting. Ask them to be exceedingly quiet, I prefer my aunt not be informed of his condition until morning.”
The butler bowed. He left the room but returned moments later with two brawny footmen. Gillian supervised as the servants carried the duke from the bookroom. The butler hesitated at the door.
“No need for you to stay. I have a key. I’ll show the earl out through the morning room and lock up after him.”
The butler bowed again before disappearing down the corridor. Gillian motioned to Moreham to follow her. She led the way until they stood side by side at the morning room’s French windows.
“Good night, Moreham. I suggest you say a special prayer tonight before going to bed. If that paper is an encoded receipt for my uncle’s Christmas punch, I’ll be the one to meet you on Hampstead Heath, pistol in hand and I won’t miss.” The lady was clearly not happy with him at present. A good time to leave.
He slipped out the garden door and waited until he heard the key turn locking the door before making for the mews. His time in the duke’s townhouse had not been more than one hour but felt like days. All he wanted was to rid himself of the encoded note and seek his bed.
“Moreham, wait.”
Cross.
He turned around and waited for his friend to join him. The toothsome grin on Cross’ face said it all. The scoundrel must have been close enough to the bookroom window to hear what had transpired.
“Don’t say a word. Take this to Fitzroy. Tell him to give its decryption top priority. You can rid yourself of that cat-in-the-cream grin off your face. Arrange for around the clock watches on Whitney Place until we know what this note says. Before you ask, I am off to write a note to my mother announcing my betrothal to Miss Browning.”
“Moreham, my sympathy. Not for being leg shackled to the lady. She is a delight, never a dull moment with her for your wife. You have my deepest sympathy for gaining Her Grace, the duchess as a de facto mother-in-law.”
Moreham wanted to land a fist dead center on Cross’ face—maybe break his nose. He had not needed Cross to