yet. Is she at home?”
Ravenna grinned. “She’s been at home ever since word arrived that you’d put into port. You are in so much trouble, you naughty boy.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m a grown man, Ravenna.”
“As you say, Your Disgrace.” She stuck out her tongue and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “She’s in the drawing room. Come along before she sends reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?”
She gave an unrepentant grin. “Your harem of female suitors.”
Rhystan felt his jaw drop. “I beg your pardon, did you just say ‘suitors’?”
“Oh yes, she’s been interviewing them by the handfuls—who wants to be the next Duchess of Embry? It’s been the rage for weeks all season.” She leaned in and lowered her voice in a stage whisper. “I’ve heard from the servants’ grapevine that the wagers at White’s are through the roof. Lady Penelope is the favorite so far, though I find her a tad…conceited for my liking.”
Her gleeful gaze slid to Sarani, who, to her credit, hadn’t said a word despite her rapidly twitching lips…which indicated she was either going to scream or burst into laughter. Rhystan grimly suspected the latter.
“She’s the daughter of the Duke of Windmere and quite an heiress,” Ravenna went on, quite oblivious to her brother’s brewing frustration. “A splendid catch, the papers are all saying. Well, bully for them. Because Lady Sara from”—she paused and frowned at Sarani, wrinkling her nose—“wait, where are you from?”
“India.”
Ravenna’s eyes went wide, her scrutiny sharpening on Sarani’s face and clothing with newfound appreciation. “Truly?”
“By way of England and Scotland,” Sarani added hastily. “A relation to the Earl of Beckforth.”
“Oh, lovely. I don’t believe I’m acquainted with him.”
Rhystan nearly swore under his breath. He saw the same aggravated look cross Sarani’s face as if realizing what she’d just admitted out loud. It wasn’t a calamity per se, especially if Ravenna didn’t share it with the duchess or any other nosy members of the ton. But it could not be taken back, not without drawing more attention. And Ravenna, as devoted a sister as she was, was still a girl at heart. Juicy secrets had a way of getting out…and Sarani’s truths were hers to share.
“Come along,” Ravenna said, striding along the corridor. “I wasn’t jesting about the reinforcements, though it will likely be Fullerton. He’s our exceedingly proper butler. He’s new. Don’t worry, Brother dear, none of your prospective brides are here. I was teasing.”
“Thank God for that,” Rhystan muttered, his brain muddled by her incessant prattling. He spared Sarani a glance. Despite the earlier glimpse of humor at his predicament—which seemed to grow darker by the second—she hadn’t said a word. His hand grazed the small of her back, his voice lowering. “Are you well, my lady?”
“Very well.” She peered up at him, eyes glittering with a glee to rival his sister’s. “Honestly, I’m quite excited to meet your harem. Assess the competition, if you will.”
Ravenna’s laugh trilled back toward them. “Oh, Rhyssie, I do like her immensely. Please do marry her.”
Rhystan bit back a sigh. The two of them together spelled trouble, but it was too soon to dwell upon it as he caught sight of his mother, ensconced in a divan in the drawing room, her back resting upon a mound of cushions. He narrowed his eyes at her complexion, checking for signs of illness and finding none. She was as hale as anyone; he’d bet his fortune on it.
Not that he expected her to be ill—not if she was busy interviewing a harem of prospective future duchesses.
“Mother,” he said in greeting.
“Embry, darling,” she said softly as if it pained her to speak, and Rhystan almost rolled his eyes. “How wonderful to see you.”
“And you,” he said, moving to kiss her outstretched hands. “You look rested.”
She smiled. “I’m much recovered, and better now that you are here.” Her gaze shifted to where Ravenna stood with Sarani, and he could see the widening of her pupils and the suspicion that instantly filled them. “I thought I heard voices in the hall. Who, pray tell, is your guest?”
“Mother, may I present Lady Sara Lockhart.” He reached back, pulling Sarani to his side and leaving his mother in little doubt of their familiarity. “Lady Sara, my mother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Embry.”
Her eyes panned between them, incisive, cold, and ever assessing, falling for an instant on the place where his hand gripped Sarani’s elbow with possessive ease. A sharp intelligence glimmered in her gaze, followed by an imperceptible tightening of her lips.
“Who, exactly, is