told to tell you—”
Pushing the door open, he let himself inside, hungry to see her.
Except . . .
She was already there . . . beside Spencer.
Temperance, in her nightdress and wrapper.
Her cheeks whitewashed.
And . . . she was not alone.
A tall, painfully slim gentleman stepped forward, his uniform distinct. His hat even more so.
And an odd buzz filled Dare’s ears . . . as he tried to muddle through.
That which he already knew. Because this wasn’t the first moment he’d been in this position. There’d been seven times prior to this where he’d found one of them at his door.
No . . . a voice silently screamed in his head. Not now.
“Dare Grey, the Marquess of Milford?” The man spoke in graveled tones, his voice coming as if down an endless corridor.
Dare managed a wooden nod. “I am.”
“You are under arrest for the crime of bribery of a prison official.”
Chapter 21
There had been any number of places Temperance had never anticipated that she’d be in life.
There’d been the time Dare had sneaked her into the rafters of a Covent Garden theatre, and she’d witnessed the splendor of a musical production.
Or the time he’d taken her off to visit the Serpentine in Hyde Park in the dead of night, under a full moon, and skipped rocks upon that serene surface.
And the time most recently, when he’d escorted her through Hyde Park.
All those moments had blurred together with time meaning little as she sat in the unlikeliest of places, the one place she’d never expected to find herself—inside the residence of a duke and duchess.
Hands clasped before her, she stole another glance at the doorway . . .
Where in blazes were they?
And yet . . .
Temperance again looked to the clock. It had been just twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes since she’d arrived in the dead of night without any form of notice, and demanded to see Dare’s grandparents.
What if they won’t see me?
Her mind balked at that.
Of course they would. They would, if for no other reason than because she was Dare’s wife.
At last, footfalls echoed in the corridors.
The duke and duchess appeared, as properly attired as if they’d just arrived from a ball and not come down from their bedchambers.
His Grace allowed his wife to enter first before following behind.
The appearance of being nonplussed must be something for which they trained those destined to be dukes and duchesses. Or mayhap it was essential training for all those of the nobility: give no outward reaction to anything, regardless of who might arrive unannounced on one’s doorstep.
“I trust this isn’t a social call,” the duchess said in her customary clipped, cool, and droll tones.
Temperance dropped a quick, belated curtsy. “No. Forgive me . . . There is a matter of . . . I . . .”
She’d had the entire ride to prepare what she might say to enlist their support.
He is their grandson. They were determined for him to live. That sobering reminder grounded her.
“Your grandson is in trouble.”
Neither the duke nor duchess moved.
At last, they exchanged a look, a long one that may as well have contained a whole conversation that only they two heard. And then the couple found a place upon the pale-blue satin sofa, motioning for her to join them.
Temperance opened her mouth, but the duchess held a finger up, silencing her. “Tea.”
What in blazes? Temperance wrinkled her brow. What Punch-and-Judy stage had she stepped upon? “Have you not heard me?” she demanded of the pair.
“My dear, hysterics will solve nothing; tea, however, will solve hysterics, and then we might speak.”
And because it was a maddening, illogical philosophy as bizarre as this whole meeting, she claimed the seat across from Dare’s grandparents . . . and sat in absolute silence until the moment a servant appeared with a silver tray and the duchess had made a glass for herself and one for her husband.
She turned to Temperance.
The duchess was asking whether she wanted tea? “No.”
The duchess aimed an incisive look at Temperance.
That had, of course, been the wrong answer. Tightening her mouth, she accepted the cup handed over and rested it on her lap. “I’ve come because—”
Another one of those long, flawlessly manicured fingers shot up.
Clink-clink-clink.
The duchess continued to stir her tea in four and a half more meticulous, perfectly even circles before setting the spoon aside. Raising her glass to her lips, she sipped, and from over the rim, she stared at Temperance.
“Your grandson is in trouble,” Temperance repeated bluntly. Perhaps that would break through this maddening indifference.
It