Page 3 of The Duke Undone

Forbes wavered on the room’s threshold. His coat and cuffs gaped open, and his red face was purpling. But he groped about behind him until he grasped the brass door handle. Maybe it was harder to disobey a duke than kill one. Or maybe he agreed. Better to be discreet when lodging a bullet in the brain of an unarmed aristocrat sitting at his desk in times of peace.

The door clicked as it closed.

Anthony resisted the urge to rub a tense muscle in his neck. His problems were twofold, but at least one canceled out the other. If Forbes did succeed in shooting him dead, he wouldn’t have to worry what Collins would say to Robert Yardley about this extraordinary encounter.

Where was Collins? It was unlike the butler to pass up an opportunity to eavesdrop. If Anthony were still a betting man, he’d wager Collins was hovering in the hall. But the man also enjoyed passing the afternoons in the kitchen, inventing new harassments for the cook. Anthony wouldn’t claim the odds were good, or even decent, but there was a chance he could contain this situation before word spread through the house.

He pushed back his chair an inch at a time, sliding his fingers slowly across the desk. He kept a pistol in the top drawer. He doubted Forbes had ever looked down the barrel of a gun. Most likely, he’d stop pointing his once he’d experienced that rather singular sensation.

Almost there.

“Don’t move.” Forbes worked his fingers, trying to seat the revolver’s grip more firmly in his palm. His arm trembled badly. “Dear God, I’ll shoot you through the heart.”

Anthony froze. Then he laughed, raising his hands. Perry Forbes was determined to make himself interesting at last. Well, why not? For decades, Weston Hall had acted as the lightning rod for London’s most electrifying scandals. If Forbes wanted an inch in the gossip columns, he’d come to the right place.

“Is this a robbery? Old boy, don’t tell me you’re bankrupt. Was it the American hair-growing tonic?”

Forbes lurched forward, toppling a side table. A brass vase bounced on the Oriental carpet, then rolled into Forbes’s path, nearly underfoot.

“H-how dare you,” he stuttered. Then he emitted a strange sound. Anthony frowned. Christ, had the fellow honked? Murdered by a goose. There wasn’t much dignity in it.

Forbes honked again.

“Ho,” he added. “Bankrupt. That’s a laugh.”

Ah, so it was mirth he was affecting. Anthony kept his own face impassive.

“I’ve got deposits in banking houses all over the world. This past year my investments turned an enormous profit. Enormous.” Forbes punctuated his speech by jabbing the air with the revolver.

“Wonderful,” murmured Anthony. “And here I was, calculating the price of my life. Well, if you don’t need the money, I’d just as well keep it.”

In truth, he had no money with which to buy his life, even if he didn’t judge it dear. His estate, his houses, his accounts—all controlled by Yardley, who disbursed his pitiful allowance, who made financial decisions large and small on his behalf. Forbes would never believe it. The Duke of Weston, a legal child. He could scarcely believe it himself.

“So, not a robbery,” he said. He held Forbes’s gaze.

Don’t look down.

“A crime of passion, is it? Bit cowardly, this approach.” He shook his head. “You show more courage in commerce. Go threaten a landed security, or a fat bond.”

“Devil take you.” Forbes took another lurching step, the toe of his boot rolling over the vase, which shot out from beneath. He flew backward, discharging a single shot. Anthony felt the heat as the bullet grazed his left biceps and swore under his breath. He’d come through howitzer bombardments unscathed in high mountain passes only to have a clodhopping businessman with a pocket pistol draw blood in Piccadilly. The irony made the wound sting all the more. Colorful curses readied themselves to roll off his tongue. Mess-tent profanity. But he bit back the words. Flicked his hand and a drop of blood fell onto the carpet, swallowed instantly by a cabbage rose. Footsteps pounded below. Servants running to and fro.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

“Weston, are you . . .” Forbes struggled to his knees. The fight had gone out of him. He sagged lower. “I didn’t . . .”

Anthony rounded his desk and stepped over Forbes. He pushed the heavy door open and leaned out into the hall. As he’d feared. Collins, long, pale, eager, approaching on the double, flanked by two footmen.

“Your Grace? We heard a shot.”

Anthony flirted with denial. No shot. Peculiar thunderclap. Strange weather we’ve been having. But that was preposterous, and a version of the truth could do no grievous harm.

Collins used to look at him like this when he really was a child, a naughty boy about to receive his comeuppance, most often delivered in this very study, then his father’s. He’d resented it at the time, and he detested it now.

“Mr. Forbes was giving me a thorough tour of his new revolver.” Anthony tried to speak lightly, angling another few degrees so the door blocked the bulk of his body. “Next time, we’ll leave off the trigger.”

“Shall I call for a doctor?” Collins raised his colorless brows. His gimlet eye shone. It was clear enough what he imagined. The weak-minded, volatile young duke had drilled a hole in his visitor.

“Doctor?” Anthony tugged his mouth, not quite a smile. “You’re not understanding. No casualties here. The bullet hit the wall.”