Adele's teeth gnashed together. "Argh. You're just like my father. I am not some insipid little debutante with fluff in her head—"
He moved toward her. A swift yank and he drew her back against his chest, locking one arm across hers as he captured her chin and tilted her head up."If I had a knife to your throat, right now, what would you do?"
Adele's chest heaved. "I would hemlock you."
"Alas, I'm fairly certain you would have tried that the moment I walked through the study door. You have no hemlock. You're human. You're not strong enough to fight me off, and if I wanted to kill you right now, I could." He let his grip on her chin soften, his fingers stroking down her throat. "I know you're intelligent. It doesn't mean a damned thing when Balfour or one of his agents has a pistol to your head."
He released her.
Adele staggered out of his arms, and touched her throat gently, her lips pressing together.
But her expression looked troubled.
"I won't have your death on my conscience," he warned. "And while you might know the Echelon's waters better than I, I have an entire network of information-gatherers who are out there right now, working to locate Balfour. Go home, Adele. And forget everything that happened here."
"Including what occurred between the pair of us?" she challenged.
"Especially that."
"Just that easily?" Adele arched a precise brow. Not so long ago, the twitch of said brow would have made him want to clench his jaw. Now all he wanted to do was capture her chin and claim that pretty, impertinent mouth and kiss the hell out of it.
How things had changed.
He felt slightly off-kilter, as if the world had shifted on its axis while he wasn't looking.
"As will you, no doubt?" she murmured, searching his gaze.
"As will I."
It was a lie.
But she clearly believed it, for the light in her eyes died. "As you wish."
Chapter 13
Fury rode her well into the next day.
Adele rose early, and for the first time in days she didn't bother to ask if her husband was at home.
No. He'd be about saving the world and searching for a dangerous blue blood mastermind who wanted to destroy London. And while she respected that he knew the sort of dangers involved, she couldn't help resenting his instructions.
Go home. Forget everything. Be a good little duchess.
For a moment yesterday, when he'd explained what he was involved in, she'd almost felt as though her husband was treating her as an equal.
For a moment she'd hovered on the verge of something more than this weary life.
She'd been ablaze with excitement—until Malloryn quite firmly set her back in her place.
All her life, her father had cursed her for not being born a son—or ignored her as unimportant because she lacked the necessary physical requirements. It wasn't until she turned fourteen and started drawing attention from young men that Sir George Hamilton had begun to realize he had an asset on his hands.
Prized for her beauty, and not her brains. Stuffed and shoved into gasp-inducing corsets, her hair heated into torturous curls, and her manners critiqued at every turn, she'd become his most valued possession.
Her father didn't want to hear what she thought. He wanted her to capture attention. He would point out a young fellow in society and tell her to make her introductions. Adele would smile and flirt, and lead said target back to her father, where suddenly she was forgotten again.
In hindsight, she longed for those days when her father had forgotten her. It might have been better than when he realized what value she truly had. Or her body, rather.
But yesterday, as she'd sat in Malloryn's study, her body aching with the aftermath of all that had occurred, she'd felt something new blossom within her.
He hadn't merely told her to mind her business, or ignored her questions. He'd revealed quite dangerous secrets, and she'd begun to believe he might see some value in her.
And then, the second her heart started beating faster at the thought that she could help, he'd swiftly disabused her of that notion.
She'd been told not to get involved.
She wasn't going to get involved.
But the second Adele finished breakfast, she sent for her writing set and locked herself away in the library.
The SOG had been a group of disgruntled blue bloods longing for a return to the old days, according to Malloryn.
She'd heard them speaking, of course, but she'd never known there was a name for them. Or a group. She'd thought it merely a gathering of fat old windbags who'd whine into their blud-wein about how they weren't allowed to molest and take what they wanted from young society ladies anymore.
Or the many younger blue bloods who had never had a chance to be such predators and resented the stolen opportunities.
"Poor devils," Adele mocked, as her nib moved across the paper and she listed every single lord she'd learned to avoid over the years.
Who were Devoncourt's cronies again?
Not the older blue bloods that'd once been in power, but the younger set that'd been the most dangerous of all. She hadn't liked that about him, but he'd assured her they were harmless.
Or defanged, he'd said, with a wry little smile.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Adele had laughed politely, for she was an expert at playing the game.
She hadn't trusted Devoncourt—she never truly trusted any blue blood—but he'd been polite and charming. And worse, he'd paid her enough attention that she'd begun to think him harmless enough.
He'd even set one or two of his little lickspittles into place when they'd treated her condescendingly.
Now that she knew who he was, she could see right through his ploys.
By the time the morning's sunlight began to brighten into midafternoon, she'd compiled a good four dozen potential SOG members; another dozen or so who were too brainless to be involved, but might have kissed enough boots to be useful; and several dozen other young blue bloods who she was fairly certain weren't involved.
And she'd circled the top five potential ringleaders or influencers.