“Well, there you go.” Whit waved his hand. “Just what I—”
“He claims that someone was the Duke of Rockeforte.”
He dropped his hand. “Ah.”
“He’s either an idiot—which leaves the question as to how he could run a counterfeiting operation—or he’s simply confused. I want you to find out which. The hunting party starts at the end of the week.”
“I’ve not been invited. I can’t very well just pop over…” He trailed off at the sight of an envelope bearing the seal of Baron Eppersly. “How the devil did you come by that?”
“I pilfered it from your mail,” William admitted without a hint of shame. “It would appear the good baron is a creature of habit, or his secretary is. Either way, he’s sent the same invitations to the same people for the last decade.”
“It’s an invitation for my father.”
“It’s an invitation,” William said slowly, “For the Earl of Thurston.”
“Eppersly is likely to argue the point.”
“I doubt it. Too much bother for him. But send an acceptance, and we’ll see.”
Whit nodded. “What of Mirabelle?”
“What of her?”
“She’s expected at her uncle’s tomorrow,” he explained, though he was certain William was aware of it.
“So she is.”
“She can’t go. She can’t—”
“Of course she can,” William argued. “And she will. If you arrive, and she doesn’t, it will cause undo suspicion.”
“The baron will already be suspicious.”
“But not unduly so.”
“William—”
“I’m not taking chances with this mission. If you can’t investigate and keep an eye on the girl at the same time, I’ll find someone who can.”
The insult stung. “I can bloody well keep her safe.”
“Excellent. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m for bed. I’m leaving early for London tomorrow. Be back in a day or two.”
“Safe journey,” Whit grumbled, though at the moment, the vision of William taking a header off his horse wasn’t an entirely unwelcome one. In fact, it was pleasant enough to indulge in a moment longer before getting up to blow out the candles and leave.
He’d have to find a way to explain his acceptance of the baron’s invitation to his family, and to Mirabelle, but tomorrow morning would be early enough for that, he decided as he closed and locked the study door behind him. He didn’t expect any of them to be up at this time of night.
“Good evening, Whittaker.”
He straightened, slowly, and he turned, very slowly—hoping, with every heartbeat that passed, that he had imagined Mirabelle’s cool voice in his right ear. Praying that his overtired brain was merely playing tricks on him and by the time he finished turning around, it would have righted itself, and the hallway would be empty. He wasn’t all that tired, actually, but a man could hope.
Fruitlessly, it seemed, because there she was—standing half in and half out of the doorway one room over with her arms crossed against her chest and her dark eyes glowering.
He swore ripely and reached for her elbow, but she dodged his grasp and stepped back into the room of her own accord.
“How long have you been sitting in here?” he demanded after following her in and shutting and locking the door behind him. “And not a word about the shut door. I’ll slip out the window if need be.”
“Give me the key to the door first,” she insisted.
Impatient, he dug the key out from where he’d shoved it in his pocket, and held it out to her. “There, now answer my question. How long have—?”
“Long enough,” she interrupted as she snatched the key, “to come to the realization that both you and William Fletcher are cracked.”
Though he hated repeating himself, he swore again. “You’re to forget what you heard. Do you understand? You’re to forget every word—”
“Stark, raving mad.”
He leaned down until they were nearly nose to nose. “Every. Last. Word.”
“No.” She said it quietly, but with a determination that made his stomach clutch even as his temper rose.
“You’ll be reasonable about this, imp—”
“Reasonable?” She laughed derisively. “You’ve accused my uncle of engaging in counterfeiting and then you have the audacity to begin a lecture on being reasonable? For God’s sake, Whit, you know very well he’s had nothing to do with this. He has neither the skill nor the connections, nor the intelligence to acquire either.”
“If that is the case, you may rest assured I shall find the proof of his innocence.”
She twisted her lips. “And yet, somehow, your words leave me feeling neither rested nor assured.”
“Mirabelle—”
“I’ll deal with this myself.”
He reared back. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll not have you sticking your nose in my family’s affairs. Stay here at Haldon. This is my problem, and I’ll handle it.”