Dukes Are Forever (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy #5)(2)

Devoncourt stepped away, his gloved hand falling from her face. "When you have thrown off the shackles of your morals, you know where to find me. I shall love you, Adele."

Love. What a mockery.

"I shall show you things that will make your heart beat forever with the sound of my name. I shall worship at your feet. All you have to do is say yes."





Auvry Cavill, the Duke of Malloryn, stalked inside the study he kept at 45 Hardcastle Lane, instantly soothed by the scent of leather and cognac. The headquarters for what he—and several of his compatriots—jokingly referred to as the Company of Rogues was becoming more of a home these days than his own.

Part of the reason for that had thick, golden ringlets, a figure more rightly suited to a Botticelli, and a clear adoration of extravagant silk gowns and feathered hats.

His wife.

With her devious green eyes and a streak of cunning that almost matched his own, Adele was the only person of his acquaintance who roused any sort of emotion within him these days. Malloryn rarely enjoyed being outplayed, and Adele had manipulated him into marriage with all the gall of a seasoned enemy general. He could almost have admired her determination, if he hadn't been the fox caught in her snare.

The woman was downright ruthless; all his friends had told him that.

But by then it had been too late.

How could one champion a cause, then protest otherwise when he'd been caught in the gardens of Lord Dalrymple's party with her? She'd practically thrown herself at him, making it clear they were in the prelude of something—whether a kiss or a bloodletting, he wasn't certain.

Sometimes he thought he hated her the most for that. He'd done his duty, by God, and if she expected anything more, then their frosty silences over the dining room table had swiftly taught her otherwise.

There was a swift rap at his study door, and for a second he flinched, taken unawares. His nerves were still recovering from Russia, though he'd be damned if he'd allow anyone to know that.

Malloryn shrugged out of his coat and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle. His nine o'clock appointment. "Come in."

Caleb Byrnes, one of his most experienced agents, pushed inside.

"We've finally found the operative we suspected had been placed within the Echelon." Byrnes slid a folder toward him, and then his cold blue eyes unexpectedly flitted over Malloryn, a hint of smothered humor within them. "He's an ex-Falcon who's been masquerading as the long-lost Earl of Devoncourt. Gemma recognized him from her days as a Falcon-in-training."

Devoncourt?

Malloryn had vague memories of the man from somewhere, though the acquaintance was fleeting at best. As part of the ruling Council that served the queen, he was far too busy to attend every ball and function. Besides, his wife was always in attendance and Malloryn wasn't that good an actor, to pretend theirs was any sort of marriage. "And this amuses you?"

Byrnes laughed. "Oh no, it's not Devoncourt that amuses me. Keep reading."

It could be anything. Byrnes had the worst sort of humor Malloryn had ever encountered.

Sliding the file open, he examined the grainy sepia photograph of the man. Handsome, dressed somewhat foppishly, with the kind of smile ladies would swoon over.... He didn't look like an assassin, but perhaps that was the point. Malloryn let the photo rest. "What's his purpose?"

"We don't know."

Again that sensation that Byrnes hesitated.

"If you wish to say something to me, I'd advise you to simply throw it on the table."

"Look at the rest of the photos, Your Grace. Gemma took them. It was an unexpected lead."

"I thought she was keeping an eye on my wife after that incident at the wedding?" Someone had tried to murder Adele the day they were supposed to be married, and with Lord Balfour at large again, it made sense to protect those he'd targeted in the past. It was one thing to dislike Adele, quite another to allow someone to outplay him that way.

"She was."

A familiar sense of foreboding curled through Malloryn's innards.

Malloryn flipped the tumble of photographs into his hands and sorted through them swiftly. Devoncourt at his club. At a garden party. At the park. Kissing Malloryn's wife.

Malloryn stilled, his senses locking down. Thumbnail tracing the shadowy image of Adele, he simply couldn't believe his eyes.

A dozen emotions swirled.

But most importantly, he couldn't help noticing the way Adele wilted against Devoncourt's hard body, a hint of longing on her expressive face as she stared at the earl. It softened her features—those devilish eyes with their wicked tilt looked almost innocent, and that indecent mouth was parted with longing. It made her seem younger. Desirable. A woman destined for a tumble into bed.

In the next photograph, she slapped Devoncourt. But the look on her face.... Not entirely one of chagrin. Malloryn had never seen that particular expression cross her devious face.

Almost as if she longed for something more.

Byrnes was waiting, his arms crossed over his chest. His recent marriage had done little to soften the man, though Malloryn suspected Ingrid might actually be the more dangerous of the two.

"I'll deal with it," he said quietly and closed the file.

"Gemma's not certain what, precisely, she witnessed. It's evident this is not the first time they've met."