He took her hand in his. She tried to yank free of his grasp, but his hold tightened and he bent over her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles.
Kiernan’s gaze captured hers. “Good morning, Phoebe,” he murmured.
His thumb brushed the spot he had kissed, then he released her. She snatched her hand back so quickly, her elbow banged the cushioned back of the chair.
“Are you all right?” He glanced meaningfully at her elbow.
“Fine, no thanks to you,” she muttered.
“Your future wife was just telling me of her father's involvement with Arthur Thistlewood,” the duke said. "You wouldn't remember, you were a boy then, but Thistlewood was found guilty of high treason and hanged in May of 1820."
A tremor rocked Phoebe's stomach. The duke remembered the incident even to the details of Thistlewood's execution?
"What did your father have to do with him?" Kiernan asked.
"He was accused of taking part in Thistlewood's plan to assassinate the Cabinet," she answered.
"I see. So you know a bit more about assassinations than I first thought."
She didn't miss the flicker of surprise on the duke's face, but had no time to consider it when she noticed—what, recognition?—in Kiernan's eyes.
"Why didn't you say something?" he asked.
"If you recall, my lord, you thought I was Heddy."
He cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing. "Indeed. Was your father also hanged?"
"Good God, no," Phoebe blurted before catching herself.
"What happened to him?"
"He was never caught."
"You told me your father died when you were seven."
She gave him a deprecating look. He would have the memory of an elephant. "What should I have said, my lord?"
"Was he guilty of the accusations?" Kiernan asked.
"I-I beg your pardon?"
"Was he guilty?" Kiernan asked again.
By heavens, she hadn't expected this question—hadn't expected any questions. "I have accepted that he wasn't the man my mother thought he was." The truth. But she'd had enough of this. Phoebe looked at the duke. “Your Grace, yesterday you asked if I understood the gravity of my situation. I ask you the same. When you thought I was related to the Wallington you knew, you weren't pleased. My father is no better than the man you knew.”
"What are you talking about?" Kiernan said.
"Never mind," the duke said, then regarded Phoebe. "The Wallington I knew was a deranged killer. Is that the case with your father?"
"No, Your Grace, but—"
“Excuse me, laird,” a woman entered the room. “The tea you asked for.”
“On the sideboard,” he instructed.
She hurried to the sideboard and set the tray down, then began filling the cups.
“I'll take care of the tea," Kiernan said.
The girl cast a blushing glance in his direction, then hurried out the door. Kiernan crossed to the sideboard as Phoebe leaned toward the duke's desk. “As I was saying, Your Grace—”
“How do you take your tea, Phoebe?” Kiernan asked.
She glanced at him, exasperated at the interruption. “Cream, two sugars.” Focusing again on the duke, she said, “Dukes do not marry their sons to the daughters of traitors.”
"Even if the duke himself descends from a traitor?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
Kiernan returned with the tea and set it on the desk in front of her. He leaned against the desk, one leg brushing hers as he stretched them out before him. Warmth rippled through her and she froze at the realization that he was purposely enticing her.
“We come from just that sort of stock,” he said.
“What?”
“About two hundred years ago, our ancestor Ryan MacGregor was a hunted traitor. Didn’t stop him from marrying into the Ashlund line.”
Kiernan’s eyes flashed the same devilishness she glimpsed the night he had burst into her carriage, and her stomach did a flip. What was wrong with her?
“You'll fit in just fine,” he said.
She gave a questioning look to the duke.
“He's right.”
Good Lord, had she stumbled into a family of traitors? Did this explain Kiernan turning a blind eye to Alan Hay's assassination plot? Maybe it was in the blood. This cast a new light on the idea of the family business.
“Has it occurred to either of you I don't want to marry?” she demanded.
“Why not?” Kiernan asked.
Phoebe hesitated, but knew she had no choice. “My twenty-fifth birthday is a few months away. I come into a sizeable inheritance. The money will allow me to do as I please.”
“So that is what you meant by my honor for your freedom,” Kiernan murmured.
“You do understand? Well, perhaps not. My uncle is a wonderful man, but his wife isn't so wonderful, and her son—well, he's a nuisance.”
“What's he done?” Kiernan demanded, and Phoebe realized he thought Ty was trying to get into her bed.
Damn him, she had no desire to explain Ty's love of gambling or her fear that Ty's mother would find a way to access Phoebe's inheritance. Phoebe planned to take possession of her money, then ensure that Lady Albery and Ty didn't ruin her uncle. But first she had to escape this mess.