"My wife."
What the hell was Adele doing here? And why were half his agents arrayed in the parlor like they were too afraid to go upstairs?
"It wasn't easy," Byrnes reported, still laughing at him, goddamn him. "She put up one hell of a struggle, and we weren't certain just how far we were supposed to subdue her... being your wife and all."
That still didn't answer the questions he had. Why the hell was Adele here? Suspicion slithered through him. He'd swallowed her story about the big bad Echelon taking advantage of her, but had he been played? Maybe she was a plant. There could be no other reason she'd be here. Could there?
That kiss sprang to mind again, doubt curdling his insides.
"And why is my wife in my study?" he asked, once he was certain he had his emotions under control.
"Well," Gemma started, "She—"
Byrnes held a hand up, silencing her.
"Oh, no," he said, with a nasty-looking grin. "We're not allowed to spoil this one. If the duke wants to know why his wife is here, then perhaps he should ask her? We'll wait."
"She was looking for a Mrs. Danner," Ingrid suggested helpfully.
"Or me," Gemma replied pointedly. "A Mrs. Townsend who was keeping you company."
Malloryn's gaze shot to her, then lifted steadily to the roof as a half dozen conclusions drew themselves. Mrs. Danner? His fake mistress? His cover? Why would— A sudden memory of Adele's glare regurgitated itself. "You want an heir? Then I want her gone," she'd snarled, in a most un-Adele-like way.
And he had the sudden sensation that something was going on, something that had nothing to do with the SOG, or Lord Balfour, or the fate of the country.
His mind made one of those brilliant leaps of conclusion it sometimes made, and the result ended up somewhere around the vicinity of oh, fuck.
"Herbert?"
"Yes, sir." The man's cheeks reddened, as well they should, damn him.
"May I ask how my wife got in here?" He paid the man a small fortune to keep the house safe, after all.
"Ah, I let her in, sir, and claimed the master of the house was away. But she was armed."
"Armed?" His voice sounded cold and flat. "Adele was armed?"
Herbert cleared his throat. "Hemlock, sir. I didn't expect it."
Hemlock.
He made his way toward the stairs as he digested this. Of course. Those bloody rings that were all the rage among the latest crop of debutantes.
From what he'd learned, his bloody wife supplied them.
"Careful," Byrnes called. "She's already taken one of us down. I should absolutely hate to see her unman you too. Charlie took a tray of brandy up to her, and we heard something smash about ten minutes ago. I suspect she's not feeling very wifely round about now."
"Is she ever feeling very wifely?" Kincaid joked.
"Are we taking odds?" Charlie stage-whispered. "Who wins this bout? The duchess? Or Malloryn?"
"My money's on the duchess," Kincaid shot back.
"Seconded." Byrnes and Gemma.
"And me," Ingrid added.
"Damn it." This from Charlie.
Only Herbert spoke up for him.
Malloryn shot them all a scathing look and started tugging his gloves off as he took the stairs slowly. They could be useful, he told himself, as the muscle ticked in his jaw. Especially Byrnes. There was a reason he put up with the man, after all. "Herbert, if you want to redeem yourself in this situation and save some face, then I would suggest you see the house cleared of this pack of gossiping rabble, and then take up station outside until I give the order it's safe to come back inside."
"Yes, sir," Herbert barked, even as Byrnes made a disappointed sound.
Then Malloryn went to corner his wife.
Chapter 11
The door opened and closed with a quiet click.
Adele didn't bother looking up from the board she'd been perusing, with its variety of notes, photographs, and red string pointing from one photograph to the other. She knew who it was.
"I didn't know you missed me so much," her husband said into the stillness.
A shiver of anticipation went through her, but she swallowed it down. The last time she'd seen him, he'd had his face buried between her thighs. And her treacherous body replayed a succinct memory of that sensation, leaving her lips, her thighs, and even that area he'd kissed tingling.
Gathering herself, she turned around.
And was undone once again.
The wind had tousled Malloryn's hair, and his piercing gray eyes locked on her with a dangerous intensity. She rarely saw him in a relaxed state; his attire was usually impeccable, his hair combed and pomaded. Even when he'd tied her to the bed and had his way with her there hadn't been a button out of place, which was frustrating, to say the least.
He tossed his scarf over the back of a nearby chair, perusing her with a coolly detached sort of curiosity that roused all her ire.
"Well? Did you find what you were looking for?" Malloryn asked, and it was almost a taunt, as their eyes locked.
Adele took a steady breath, her fists clenching. Anger had sustained her on the carriage ride here, but it had evaporated in the brief two hours she'd been locked in the study, as her mind started working. She'd been played for a fool, and she did not enjoy the sensation. Worse, she'd made a fool of herself. The new Adele had been a concept that invigorated her, and yet she saw immediately there'd been traces of her old self left behind.
A hint of naiveté.
A slightly breathless feeling of hope.
She would not make that mistake again.
"No opera singers hiding under my desk?" Slowly, he tossed his gloves on the nearest chair and took a step toward her, moving with predatory grace. "No perfume on my coat? No undergarments belonging to some other woman in my drawers?"
"I haven't checked the drawers yet. The map of London and all the photographs of dead men sidetracked me. I knew Lord Ulbricht was missing, thanks to the London Standard, but I see he's been accounted for. Did you bury him yourself?"