Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,68
Asher’s partnership in Beckford’s club was secret. Beckford waved a hand at Asher. “Blythe, meet the Duke of Carrington. Carrington, meet my sister, Blythe.”
Asher stared in astonishment, then slanted a look at Beckford. “Ye have a great many secrets, I see.”
Beckford’s mouth tugged upward for a moment, then fell. “Don’t we all?”
“I suppose so.”
Blythe raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow as she looked between the men. “I’ve things to do,” she growled. “Should I turn the bloke away or permit him into the club?”
“Did he give his name?” Asher asked, though only Cushman knew he was here.
“Cushman,” Blythe promptly answered.
“We’ll handle this, Blythe,” Beckford said. “Go back to counting the night’s earnings.”
Blythe nodded and departed as Carrington and Beckford rose from their seats. “A sister?”
“I never told you because you didn’t need to know.”
Asher laughed at the lie. “Does this mean ye now fully trust me?”
“I just told you who Blythe was, didn’t I?”
“I suppose ye did,” Asher agreed.
“Are you thinking there’s trouble with your brother?” Beckford asked, knowing Pierce’s love of liquor.
“Likely,” Asher said. He would not think it was anything else. Like a note from Guinevere. Still, his pulse spiked.
He followed Beckford as he wove around a group of men who had just entered the main room of the club. Neither of them spoke as they moved along the shadowy corridors to the alley door—the only entrance to the club—which was manned by the tallest gentleman Asher had ever seen. Asher was usually a good half a head taller than most men, and this man was taller than he was.
“Bear, this is Carrington.”
The man, though tall, was wiry. He extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, his tone soft with an undercurrent that somehow made him sound threatening. To Beckford, he asked, “Do you wish me to let the bloke enter?”
Beckford nodded, and Bear produced a key and unlocked the door. There on the other side, looking completely out of place in his uniform, was Cushman.
“Your Grace,” he said, offering a small bow while managing to give a look of superiority to Bear and Beckford. “I beg pardon for bothering you when you are…in this place.”
God save him from snobby valets. He shot his arm out to stop Beckford from advancing on Cushman and kicking him out into the dark alley. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“He did,” Beckford bit out, “but I’ll let him stay to finish what he came to tell you.”
“What brings ye here, Cushman?”
The man immediately produced a note that he held out to Asher. “This was delivered for you a short time ago.”
It couldn’t be. Asher took out his timepiece and checked the time. Just after midnight. Suspicion rose. “When was this note delivered?” he asked, taking it but not opening it. It had to be from Guinevere. He wanted to rip it open to see what she said, but he’d be damned if he did so. Instead, he tapped a finger impatiently against the foolscap.
“Directly before the hour of midnight, Your Grace. I came straightaway, as the coachman who delivered it said I must get it to you before midnight. I was here before that, but I was not permitted to enter.”
Asher nodded. She’d written him. But was it to tell him she was wedding Kilgore or that she wanted her betrothal to him to stand? “Ye can go, Cushman.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Cushman bowed out the way he had come, Bear following the man.
The door closed, leaving Asher and Beckford alone. Asher stared down at the note in his hands and forced himself to remain calm, to feel nothing.
“I want that,” Beckford said into the silence that had descended.
“What?” Asher asked, knowing Beckford did not mean the note.
“A stuffy servant bowing and scraping over me as if—” He waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind.”
“Ye have enough money to purchase as many stuffy servants as ye wish.”
“It’s not the same. You know it’s not.”
He clapped Beckford on the shoulder. “I know ye must stop giving a damn or ye’ll never be happy.”
“I don’t give a damn for me,” Beckford said, and Asher could not tell whether his friend was telling the truth or not. “It’s Blythe I worry for.”
“Of course,” Asher said.
“Are you going to open the missive?”
Asher nodded and did so, clenching his teeth as he looked at the looping handwriting of the letter. He scanned down to the end, and his damn chest constricted when he saw that it was signed by Guinevere. His gaze returned to the top of