When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,137

“Taught Greek an’ Latin fer twenty years for Will’am an’ Mary in the backwoods.”

“For whom?” Adeline tried to untangle that statement.

“College in the godforsaken colonies. Can’t imagine what they need Greek fer in Virginia.” He slapped Marstowe on the shoulder. “Don’ know why you stayed s’long either.”

“Would you like to be dealt in, my lady?” the beautiful dealer asked smoothly.

Adeline shook her head. “I do not know how to play,” she lied.

“Not mus’ of a game for women, an’ways,” the duke said, leaning toward her. “Maths, you know. Hard for you to unnerstand.”

“Of course.” Adeline glanced with no little irony at the woman dealing the cards, who only gazed back impassively. “Would you mind if I watched?”

“S’long as your French friend stays put,” Marstowe mumbled, gesturing at the bottle by her elbow.

“What made you decide to go to the Americas, my lord?” Adeline asked guilelessly.

Marstowe didn’t answer or even cast a glance in her direction. He only picked up his glass and took a healthy swallow.

Adeline tipped her head in consideration. Interesting. Not that she’d expected him to confess that he’d killed a child and had had to flee, but her fawning ingenue approach almost always yielded better results with men deep in their cups.

The duke, however, did not disappoint. “The kind o’ opportunity the church don’ give,” Rotham answered for him instead, his eyes straying once again to Adeline’s bodice. “His father wanted ’im to join th’ church but we’ve been frien’s since Eton an’ Marstowe would ’ave made the worst sort o’ cleric.” He sneered. “Bloody bunch o’ thieves, the church—”

“I heard that the ship you were on sank in a terrible storm off the coast of Massachusetts,” Adeline interrupted, facing the baron and putting a hand to her chest. “How terrifying that must have been.”

The baron’s head finally came up. “How’d y’know that?”

“One hears things,” Adeline said.

“You never tol’ me that, Marstowe,” the duke protested. “Yer ship really sank?”

“It was a goddamn packet,” the baron mumbled. “Goddamn pig o’ a ship captained by a half-wit. Blew off course in th’ wind.”

“You sailed on a packet?” Rotham asked, sounding suitably horrified. “How primitive.”

“S’what was available.” Marstowe picked up his first card.

“That’s what happens when you kill someone,” Adeline said with a forced chuckle.

The baron’s hand jerked, the card bending in his grasp. His face drained of color. “What did y’say?”

“You must have killed someone. That’s why you were in such a terrible rush to leave England,” she continued gaily. “Desperate enough to sail on a packet.”

“Jesus, Marstowe, careful wi’ th’ damn cards.” The duke elbowed him. “She’s no’ serious.” He accepted two cards from the dealer.

The baron clutched his glass and drained the rest of his brandy in a single gulp.

Rotham turned and grinned sloppily at Adeline. “I know some Greek too, my lady.”

Adeline ignored him, watching Marstowe. His color was starting to come back, though he hadn’t relinquished his grip on his glass.

“I bought Hercules tonight,” the duke announced, his eyes once again straying south to lodge at her breasts. His hand followed his gaze, his fingers reaching for the embroidered edge of her bodice. “Mebbe you’d like t’ be my Hippolyta an’ show me yer girdle—”

“Heracles.” A new voice broke into the conversation and stayed the duke’s wandering fingers. “It was Heracles who was Greek.”

Chapter 7

As the shock of seeing John Westerleigh had subsided over the course of the evening, the knowledge that the man still lived and breathed had become like a festering sore that could not be ignored. However, King had managed to rein in the rage and revulsion that had dictated his actions in that study and blinded him to good sense. The time that had elapsed since coming face-to-face with a dead man had also allowed King the opportunity to think more clearly, and he’d come to the very uncomfortable realization that he should have heeded the goddess of retribution.

Adrestia had urged him to either take the night to think or simply deal with the situation on his own. But he hadn’t listened. Hadn’t thought beyond his all-consuming need for revenge. And he hadn’t really comprehended just how many layers of his own life would inevitably be peeled back and exposed once she started chasing the truth.

And that intrusion into his privacy and his past was unacceptable.

King settled himself into a chair beside the duke. Adrestia was glaring at him now through her mask. She was breathtakingly beautiful, even when furious, or maybe more so because of it. The mask only added