When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,108

pawns in the game of intrigues and counter-maneuvers Wakefield had dabbled in for years. They were doing more to safeguard Matilda’s well-being than her own father had, just as the pawns usually did more to join battle on the chessboard than the noble pieces.

“Come, gentlemen,” Wakefield said. “I’ve a notion to get back on the road.”

They walked with him to the door, exactly as if Wakefield were a prisoner under armed escort. Was Matilda feeling imprisoned by Parker’s protection? Why had the staff at Brightwell refused to mention her, and who had been in those two carriages pulled by the big, fine horses?

Wakefield climbed into the coach, certain of two things: First, he knew he was done with the spying and intrigues, done with the generals and their little housekeeping matters, this time for good. Second, if Matilda survived this quagmire, she ought to disown her only surviving parent. Wakefield had considered himself a competent spy until now, but no sort of father for quite some time.

* * *

Inaction was killing Duncan, hour by hour, and yet, the sun had set without a priest having been summoned to Parker’s abode, and no coaches bearing Matilda had departed. A fashionable modiste had arrived, footmen and seamstresses in tow, and though darkness had long since fallen, they had yet to leave the premises.

“We should storm the gates,” Stephen said, making a slow circuit around Quinn’s billiards table, “not that storming is my forte.”

“Duncan is right,” Quinn replied, wasting his shot on a maneuver involving three bumpers. “We’ll be turned away at the drawbridge if we attempt to storm the portals of a marquess’s home. Perhaps a little creative housebreaking is in order.”

Amid the worry tearing at Duncan’s insides, an odd comfort glowed. “That the situation has inspired Stephen to pacing and the family duke to criminal schemes warms my heart, but we won’t know Parker’s motives unless and until a priest arrives. I’m also curious regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Wakefield.”

“Aren’t we all?” Stephen muttered, bracing a hand on the back of the sofa. “I don’t see how you can sit here, calm as a dowager with her cats, when Matilda is in Parker’s hands.”

“I am far from calm.” Duncan considered the possibilities on the billiards table, much as he’d analyze a game of chess. “We are operating at a critical disadvantage in terms of information upon which to base our attack. What if we storm the castle, have Parker arrested for kidnapping, and Matilda is then arrested for treason? What if we find a way to steal into her bedroom in the middle of the night, and she refuses the opportunity to flee again?”

She would be that brave, that stubborn. She’d only told Jinks that Parker intended a distasteful marriage. She hadn’t shared her own strategy.

Duncan took his shot, a conservative choice that nonetheless advanced his lead.

“So I break in,” Quinn said, “and I’m discovered where I haven’t been invited. I’ll be tried in the Lords, and they don’t convict their own.” His tone was dubious, because Quinn was not one of their own. He was an upstart guttersnipe who’d come into a title through merest chance.

Also a man who could be felled by a bullet, the same as any other.

“I never thought of having Parker arrested,” Stephen said, sinking into a chair. “That could work.”

Duncan marshaled his patience, a task of Herculean proportions. “Or it could get Matilda sent to Newgate.”

“She wants rescuing or she never would have told Jinks that marriage is in the offing,” Quinn said. “You were right about that. She knew that information would inspire you to heroics, though I’m damned if I can approve of any scheme that brands you a traitor.”

Some heroics, playing billiards while losing my mind. “Heroics,” Duncan said, returning his cue stick to the wall rack, “come at a cost. Heroics force a confrontation and can result in heavy casualties and lost ground, none of which can be undone once the hero has charged forth. Heroics can result in innocent deaths, and I’ll have no more of those on my conscience.”

Quinn and Stephen exchanged a look, though neither spoke.

“You have nothing to say to that logic,” Duncan muttered, heading for the door. “I’m going for a walk.”

“At midnight you’re captivated by the notion of wandering the streets?” Stephen asked.

“In the middle of London?” Quinn added. “Not without me.”

“And not without me,” Stephen added. “I’ll slow the pace lamentably, but I will be damned if I’ll let you stumble about in the