The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,33

had been far down on her list of suspects, but because of his tragic past, his philanthropic reputation, and more compelling evidence leading her in other directions, she’d allowed her suspicions to wander away from him.

All this time. She’d been so close.

Months ago, a dead girl had been found in his garden, but he’d submitted to every form of investigation, and they’d found the immediate culprit in Cecelia Teague’s own household.

The body had been placed out of spite for the man pulling the strings of many a marionette.

Why hadn’t she pieced that together before?

The Lord Chancellor had been another angle of the Triad, and because of a recent death by natural causes, the conclave was in search of a third. They’d several candidates, many of them astonishing, and a few of them surprised her not at all.

When she’d asked the Lord Chancellor if Francesca’s father, the previous Earl of Mont Claire, had been a powerful part of the Crimson Council, he’d shocked her by laughing.

The Cavendishes were not killed for who they were in the council, he’d slurred up at her, they were killed for the secrets they couldn’t keep. Every person in that household had become a liability, and so they were dealt with.

Further interrogation had been interrupted by that skilled and … perverse agent of the Crown.

Blast that man, whoever he was.

What she didn’t know didn’t matter. Not tonight. She had a name. Luther Kenway. She was in his arms. The waltz would soon be at an end and she’d done nothing to further their acquaintance.

Speak, Francesca, speak! she bade herself. Say something witty, or snide, or flirty, at least.

But she could only peek at him from beneath the shadows of her lashes, because being in his arms made her soul cold enough to lock her muscles with shudders.

This was who she’d been waiting to meet for nearly twenty years. The man most likely responsible for the death of her family. Who’d gone unpunished for so long.

Or had he?

She gathered the courage to scrutinize him. He’d lost all three of his children in such a horrific manner. Perhaps the tragedy had driven him to become a monster. Or perhaps as a monster, he’d driven his wife to do such a shocking and terrible thing. Who could say?

It didn’t matter now. He was her enemy.

But what sort of enemy was he? An idealist? A pervert? A tyrant? Did he lead an organization that had become corrupted, or had he corrupted his followers?

“I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured with a tender sort of condescension.

“You couldn’t possibly.”

“That we should marry.”

Francesca would have stumbled had he not rescued her with a dashing twirl that might have been the reason any normal woman would have appeared breathless.

He was nothing if not effortlessly deft.

Had he just proposed marriage in the same tone one might propose a game of whist?

“I-I beg your pardon?”

Lines appeared at his mouth and eyes that made him somehow look younger as his features were touched with amusement. “Logically, it makes a great deal of sense for us both.”

For a woman used to being two steps ahead of her opponent, Francesca found it that much more disconcerting to not be caught up. “But I-I’ve only just met you.”

“Certainly. But we’re getting along, aren’t we?”

“That’s hardly grounds for nuptials.”

His lip curled in an oddly familiar gesture. “I’m next in line to the Mont Claire title after you, and seeing as how we’re both without an heir, it might behoove us to make one.”

Francesca gulped. To the say the prospect repulsed her would be akin to saying the ocean was large or that hell was hot.

“I thought you were fourth in line. Or was it third?” she corrected.

“After two very unfortunate deaths, my dear, it would seem I am your heir.”

The blood left her face as she realized he didn’t even bother to appear as though the deaths weren’t anything but fortunate where he was concerned.

These deaths—they had to have been decidedly recent, or she’d have heard about them. If she didn’t accept his proposal, would the next untimely demise be her own?

“You don’t want me for a wife, my lord.” She injected a coy bit of modesty in her voice, remembering what Drake had said about the word. “I’m a tired old spinster.”

He hid his lips next to her ear so no one could read them. “I find you a wickedly desirable woman with an appetite that I’m told rivals mine,” he breathed before pulling back and affixing a delighted and