yet the sight had also made a scalding heat distill through her body like ink through water.
Cabbageheaded was clearly too weak a description for her.
Despite his promises, Sarani forced herself to keep his letter etched in her memory. His words had been succinct, with the precision of a dagger set to remove a heart from its prey, and the letter had done its job, even if it’d been written in anger. Years later, those cruel words still bit like blades in her memory.
It didn’t matter that he’d changed his tune.
Sarani wasn’t so naive that she didn’t know Rhystan had some other motive and that this sham betrothal would benefit him in another hidden way at her expense. The hard, intractable man he’d become didn’t forgive or forget slights. So what did he want from her? Every instinct in her brain screamed not to trust him. But she’d had no choice then, and she had none now.
Like Odysseus, she was stuck between a monster and a whirlpool. Or like the boatswains said when they hung in the precarious bosun’s chair to caulk the long seam that ran from bow to stern—that they were hanging between the devil and the deep. Neither scenario presented pleasing odds. With Rhystan in front of her and a killer behind her, the duke was obviously the lesser of two evils.
Or is he?
Sarani suppressed the clench of warning that gripped her spine. Now was not the time for doubts. She would use him to get settled in England, see Tej and Asha safe, and accept his help in determining the identity of the assassin if he tracked her to London.
Sarani repeated her mantras.
The betrothal is a means to an end.
The Duke of Embry is a means to an end.
* * *
Rhystan watched with a narrowed eye as Gideon expertly navigated the crowded Thames, the putrid stench of its riverbed climbing into his nostrils. He trusted his quartermaster’s skill as they steered toward the fairly newly constructed six-year-old Victoria Dock. Collisions happened frequently given the volume of movement on the river, but pillaging by thieves was more predominant, which was why he and several of his men kept a keen eye out as they sailed past nearby vessels.
His throat tightened as a cold sensation settled over his shoulders, the mantle of duke thumping over his shoulders like a salt-crusted, waterlogged blanket. London—it was the only place in all the world he truly didn’t want to be. On the sea, he was judged on his effort and worth as captain. Here, every step was measured, every action noted, but for the flimsiest of reasons. One wrong word and a goddamned scandal would be certain to ensue. He resented the charade with every bone in his body.
Scowling, Rhystan shook off his annoyance. The only solution was to make this visit as short as possible and be back out to sea where he belonged. He thought of his mother and sister, and guilt speared him. They’d done fine without him all these years. No sense changing something that wasn’t broken.
“See that the cargo is unloaded,” he shouted to Gideon once the Belonging was docked beside a massive steamship on the wharf.
The sale of the tea, spices, lace, and silks they carried would fetch a pretty penny. Fair trade was an important part of his shipping business, and though most of it was aboveboard with the Crown, Rhystan didn’t wear his trousers down around his ankles either. The taxes levied on merchant goods was astronomical.
“See you at the tavern?” his quartermaster asked.
Rhystan scrubbed at the several weeks’ growth of beard he’d acquired, knowing that he would have to break from their usual tradition. “Not today. I have to find my valet to make myself presentable and be off to Huntley House to make sure my mother isn’t on her last breaths as implied by her letter.”
“Is she?”
“You’ve met the lady,” Rhystan said. “What do you think?”
Gideon’s succinct opinion of the duchess, who had glared at him at the funeral as though she were facing him down at dawn, had hit the nail on the head—she was clever and manipulative to a fault, though her loyalty to her family was unquestionable.
“I think that she’s as fine as a farthing fiddle,” he said. “But I’m wagering she wants you to marry, settle down, and be duke.”
Rhystan’s mood darkened. “Precisely.”
“I’ll drink a pint to your sanity, then.”
“It will take more than a pint.” Rhystan sighed. “Put a round on the lads from me.”
With that, he