When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,130

Though I’ve been advised that you have brought a stranger to a private affair.”

“Not a stranger,” the duke said hurriedly. “But an old acquaintance of discerning taste, newly returned to London. I can personally vouch for his discretion. I’d like to introduce you.” Without waiting for a response, the duke turned and gestured at someone unseen beyond the study door.

King’s jaw clenched with impatience and irritation. He didn’t have time for this. This wasn’t a bloody ball at Almack’s, and he didn’t need introductions to anyone—

King froze as his mind tried desperately to comprehend what he was seeing.

Whom he was seeing.

A trim, gray-haired man dressed impeccably in rich navy evening clothes, but without a mask, had entered his study, his gait marred by a slight limp. He was looking around with interest, blue eyes lingering on the art and the books and the diamonds on the desk. He came to a casual stop beside Rotham, clasping his hands behind his back, his attention finally turning to King.

The air was sucked from the room, and dark spots danced around the edges of King’s vision. Bile rose in his throat, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. Prickles of icy sweat crawled down his spine and more gathered at his temples. He shuddered, cold and hot at the same time. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. This man was supposed to be dead.

“May I present John Westerleigh, the new Baron Marstowe, recently returned from the Americas.” The duke was talking, though it sounded as if his voice were muffled by a thick fog.

Shock and incomprehension were giving way to something far darker bubbling up from the deepest parts of his soul along with a suffocating rage. King was distantly aware that he was breathing raggedly, old memories of hatred and, worst of all, helplessness twisting through his chest and constricting his lungs.

King met the baron’s gaze, but there was not a flicker of recognition in the older man’s eyes. King wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

The duke was droning on, presumably making some sort of introduction to the baron, but King didn’t hear him. He could only stare, trapped in past memories until he became aware that a silence had fallen. Rotham was looking at him expectantly now.

“Shall the duke and his guest stay, sir?” Elliot prompted from beside King. King didn’t remember the child moving.

Only so that I can keep an eye on the devil.

King nodded slowly, still afraid to speak.

“Splendid.” The duke was beaming at him, and the baron inclined his head, still without a glimmer of recognition.

But then it had been almost twenty years. And King was no longer a child.

Elliot produced a mask and handed it to the baron with a quick grin. Marstowe smiled back at the boy, and without thinking, King stepped in front of his young footman.

“You are dismissed, Elliot,” King said, his voice sounding rough even in his own ears.

“Sir?”

“Go.”

“Yessir.” Elliot looked confused but did as he was ordered.

“I can’t wait to see what other prizes you’ve managed to procure for our enjoyment this evening.” The duke was donning his mask. “Come, Marstowe. You won’t be disappointed.”

“I am already enchanted,” the baron said, following suit.

King watched them leave the study, crossing the room to close the door after them. He returned to the desk and leaned back against the edge, his vision still blackened at the peripheries, rage still making it difficult to breathe.

“King.”

Adrestia had appeared directly in front of him, her forehead creased and what looked like concern filling her silver eyes.

“You want the sapphire?” he rasped.

She raised her hand, touching the sleeve of his coat before her fingers slid down to his wrist. “Yes, but I—”

“It’s yours.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“In exchange, I’m hiring you.”

“I see.” Her voice was steady. Soothing. “May I ask what for?”

The rage inside him crystallized into cold certainty.

“I need you to destroy someone.”

Chapter 5

Adeline eyed King warily. He was speaking to her, but she wasn’t sure that he even saw her.

She shifted, gently lifting his hand. It was fisted around the small quill knife he’d been toying with, and blood now dripped through his clenched fingers onto the expensive Turkish rug. King glanced down at the rivulets of blood and opened his hand to reveal the knife and the long cut across his palm where the blade had bitten. Silently Adeline slipped it from his grasp and set it on the desk. Without asking she reached up and unknotted his cravat, pulling