Sarani flushed at her unruly thoughts and ducked her head.
Too late—Ravenna was already staring at her and grinning. “You’re besotted with my brother, admit it!”
“I am not.”
“You are, too. You went all calf-eyed the minute you saw him.”
Sarani blushed. “You are being silly.”
“Silly but right.”
But the duke was already upon them before she could form a reply. Sarani’s breath caught, her senses running amok as he came to a stop, bowing to them, those forceful eyes falling upon her like a tangible caress. “Ladies. No, no, please don’t get up.”
“Your Grace,” Clara squeaked, while Sarani murmured the same.
“Brother, dearest, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Ravenna squinted up at her brother. “Do hurry up. You’re interrupting a rather fabulous conversation about fashion. Sara’s going to let us try on some of her clothing from India.”
The duke’s gaze fastened to her, and Sarani fought to keep from squirming. The last time he’d seen her wear anything like a sari had been at the river, and that garment had been partially transparent even over a chemise. She seemed to recall him clutching his coat to his lap as if he’d die without it, and at the time, she’d been confused. Now that they’d been intimate, she knew exactly what it signified.
Her face warmed. “It’s all in good fun, Your Grace, I assure you.”
Rhystan opened his mouth and shut it as if he, too, was reliving the same memory. Sarani closed her eyes to avoid looking at his groin. Because that would be unseemly.
“I need to speak with you,” he said. “Alone.”
Grinning widely, Ravenna bit her lip as though she had something to say, but at the sharp look on her brother’s face, she curbed her tongue and grabbed Clara’s hand. “Don’t mind us, we’ll be just over here, hitting feathered bits of cork and sweating like piglets.”
Sarani bit back a laugh before standing to join Rhystan a few steps away. “What do you wish to speak to me about?”
“Markham has demanded money.”
She faltered. She hadn’t expected that. “How much?”
“An exorbitant amount,” he said, raking a large hand through his hair in a frustrated motion that would account for how messy it’d looked earlier. “I’ve just come from my club. Markham was stripped of his property by Lord Canning himself and discharged with disgrace. He was accused of conduct unbecoming an officer under court-martial and found guilty by the viceroy for levying his own taxes on the locals and running a smuggling ring.”
“Good heavens,” Sarani whispered.
“He has a mountain of debt, which means he’s desperate—at least enough to threaten a peer with extortion.”
“Will you pay him?”
“No,” Rhystan said, causing her heart to tumble to her feet. “Scum like him can’t be stopped. He’ll just keep coming back for more.” He paused, seeing the distressed expression on her face. “Do you trust me, Sarani?”
They were the same words he’d said to her a lifetime ago in Joor.
Sarani stared at him, seeing nothing but sincerity in those steel-blue eyes. She sucked in a breath, searching them. He held her fate in his palm.
“I do.”
Twenty-Two
The first part of his plan required a bit of stalling on Rhystan’s part. He accomplished that by having Longacre deliver an official letter from the bank to Markham’s rented apartments, stating that the requested funds would take some time to gather. A week was the best he could stretch it to without making the man suspicious, but he was leaning on the fact that the disgraced vice admiral needed the money.
The second part required more finesse. Finesse because Rhystan wanted nothing more than to beat the man to a bloody pulp for daring to blackmail him. But he needed something on Markham—something that would make the bastard sweat. In the meantime, he’d directed Longacre to pay off Markham’s creditors and consolidate his debt.
From what Gideon had dug up, the man had a reputation for being a swindler, and he had a number of enemies. Someone would want his pound of flesh, and Rhystan was prepared to supply it. Unless, of course, Markham agreed to stand down. The duke would deal with Talbot summarily, too, but that was for later.
An eye for a fucking eye.
He stared at Sarani, who had insisted on joining him at the Green Stag where he was meeting Gideon for an update on Markham’s enemies. She caught his look across the wooden table and sent him a jaunty grin over her mug of ale.
Once more, she was dressed as a young man, in a pair of trousers,