"All right. She pulled from a drawer the copy of the Satirist she had had Calders purchase for her, and handed it to Redgrave."
His face remained impassive as he read the article and Phoebe wondered how many times throughout their friendship he'd worn that same look while hiding something from her, something like the fact he knew her father was still alive.
His gaze shifted back to her. "You can't be surprised by this."
"Indeed, I can. There are too many intimate details in that story for this to be someone who happened to see Lord Ashlund and me in Scotland."
He lifted a brow. "You suspect me?"
"You have your reasons for wanting to see me married to the marquess."
"Once we are sure he's an honest man, yes, but even then I wouldn't stoop to these tactics."
She snorted. "You would."
"All right," he said. "I might. But I didn't."
"Briarden?" she asked.
Alistair shook his head. "He would not stoop to such tactics."
Phoebe wasn't so sure. Briarden had made it clear that she was employed by the Crown to gather information, and as the future wife of a suspect she was in a perfect position to carry out that duty. But how much better would her position be as wife…and lover?
"The only other person who knows enough is Calders, and he wouldn't do it," she said.
"No," Alistair said, "I don't believe he would. But he isn't the only possible suspect."
"My aunt and uncle, but they would never report to the papers." Or would her aunt?
"True," Alistair replied. "Remember, you stayed in that inn on the English border. From what you told me, the innkeeper's wife sounds like the type to sell such a story."
"But she would have to know there was a story to sell."
"What about someone in Ashlund's entourage?"
"If what I saw in Scotland is accurate, highly unlikely. Those men practically worship him and his father."
A rush of emotion barreled through her. There was one other candidate, and she suddenly wondered just how much he hated losing a battle.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The emeralds Phoebe wore around her neck seemed to seer into her flesh as she paused in the entry of the Ashlund mansion ballroom. Everyone's attention turned toward her, eyes on the jewels that proclaimed she was an Ashlund.
"Easy, girl," her uncle said. He patted her left arm.
His wife stood to his left, and Ty stood next to her.
The crowd to Phoebe's right parted and she drew a breath at sight of Kiernan MacGregor passing through their ranks, his gaze fixed on hers as though she was the only woman in the room…the only woman in the world. He wore a black dress coat, ivory silk waistcoat, white shirt, and black trousers—and white gloves. By heavens, he embodied the perfect gentleman. And he was stunning. When he reached her side and grasped her hand, she felt the tremble in her fingers as he lifted them to his lips. As always, his mouth was moist, warm, and deliberate in its work on her flesh. Heat crept up her cheeks and, from her belly, moved downward to where a now familiar ache tightened.
"You are the Devil," she murmured when he released her hand.
"Phoebe," her aunt remonstrated in a whisper.
The Devil danced in Kiernan's eyes and Phoebe read the message, who better than the Devil understood wicked pleasure?
She caught sight of the duke standing in the group Kiernan had left, and the thin lipped expression on his face. "My lord," she said to Kiernan, "I believe your father plans to take you over his knee."
Kiernan laughed, but didn't look at him. That, Phoebe was certain, was purposeful.
"He's quite capable." Kiernan's attention shifted to her uncle. "Lord Albery."
"My lord," her uncle said.
Kiernan grinned. "Kiernan will do." He took a step to Phoebe's aunt. "Lady Albery, you grow more lovely each time we meet."
She demurred, but Phoebe didn't miss the fleeting, but distinct, sultry look in her eyes. So her aunt wasn't above a flirtation with her soon-to-be nephew.
"Lord Ashlund." She curtsied.
Kiernan gave her a roughish look. "Lords and curtsies will soon grow tiresome among us." He winked at her. "We'll leave that in the public world."
Lady Albery gave a graceful nod. "As you wish, Kiernan."
He smiled broadly. "Excellent."
"May I present Lady Albery's son," Phoebe's uncle said, "Ty Humphrey, Baron Arlington."
Kiernan's gaze shifted onto Ty, and Ty gave a slight bow. "My lord."
"Arlington," Kiernan said with a civility that Phoebe noticed didn't hold the warmth he'd extended to her aunt and uncle.
The orchestra began playing a waltz and he faced her. "I believe this first dance belongs to me, Miss Wallington." His gaze shifted to her aunt. "But if you would do me the honor, Lady Albery, I will claim a dance with you later in the evening?"