Dalton had never heard her speak of this beau before. Something she had said jarred his mind. O'Roarke nearly strangled her? That didn't sound right.
"Tell me more," Dalton urged. "Did this O'Roarke hate my father for stealing you away?"
"Oh yes. Called him a devil and an evil British oppressor. Said he'd never make me happy, as he could. Said I'd live to regret my folly. And so would the duke. He was all red about the face. Truly he scared me. But why didn't I listen to him? Why didn't we run away together?"
The hairs on the backs of his arms stood on end. That gave O'Roarke a motive. He'd hated the duke for stealing his bride.
Hated him enough to murder his son?
Love made people do desperate things.
The murderer had left a note stuck under a rock on the barren stretch of shoreline.
You stole what was mine, so I stole something of yours.
Abigail lifted her head and tears began streaming down her cheeks. "Why, why did I marry your father?" The cat on her lap gave a frightened yowl and leapt away, startling the cat by Dalton's feet.
The two offended felines tore out of the room.
"He was so cruel," she moaned, clutching at her collar. "His fault. Poor Alec . . . poor, sweet boy. He had to pay the price."
Dalton sprang out of his chair and offered his handkerchief, discreetly pulling the bell for the nurse.
This was how it began. There was nothing more he could do. He'd tried. But anything he did at this point would only make it worse.
When his mother was safely in bed and feeling calmer, Dalton walked back to his apartments.
This was the best lead he'd had in years.
He'd go to Ireland to find this Patrick O'Roarke. Or America, if he had to. Question him. Break him, if necessary.
Perhaps Con would be seeing his brown-eyed Bronagh soon, after all. If O'Roarke still had ties to County Cork, Dalton needed to be there.
They'd leave tomorrow, slipping away in the early morning. He couldn't risk Trent seeing him with this slash across his jaw, or hearing about it from someone else.
Actually, a journey out of town was exactly what the doctor ordered.
And there was irony for you, he thought as he ascended the stairs to his chambers. Lady Dorothea would certainly be interested to know he was planning to visit Ireland.
Of course, she'd never know.
"You're late."
"I . . . am?" Thea blinked at the tall, broad-shouldered older man who'd opened the door of the duke's town house before she'd even finished knocking.
Emphatic nose, bristly gray beard with reddish streaks, no cravat-was he even a butler?
"Well, don't just stand there, love." The man gestured impatiently toward the shadowy entrance hall. "He's waiting."
Love? Just who did this disreputable-looking butler think was at his door? Thea hesitated on the threshold, a sliver of misgiving intruding into the indignant resolve that had driven her here.
She'd slipped downstairs when her mother retired for the evening and left by the side entrance on King Street, swathed in a hooded gray cloak over her pelisse.
Skirting St. James's Square instead of taking the direct route across, she'd traversed the back streets as stealthily as possible, her mission made easier by the fact that the duke still lived in his more modest bachelor apartments instead of in the nearby grand residence of Osborne Court itself.
One thought had pulsed through her mind, sweeping away hesitation and propelling her to his door.
The duke had ruined all her plans. And he would just have to repair them.
She simply couldn't be a success. And she wouldn't live with her grandmother.
It extinguished all hope of the unobtrusive season she'd planned, the quiet escape back to Ireland, a quiet, blissfully husband-free life with her aunt.
"Well?" The man crossed his brawny arms and stared down at her, drawing his thick gray eyebrows together. "Are you going to stand there all night? You are Miss Inga Olofsson, are you not? From Madame Signe's? Here for the usual?"
"Erm . . ." Apparently she'd been mistaken for a Swedish courtesan.
Maybe now would be a good time to tell the unkempt butler the truth.
I'm Lady Dorothea Beaumont and I'm here to deliver the scathing reprimand your master so richly deserves.
That wouldn't get her past the door.
She'd be whomever the butler wanted her to be if it would gain her entrance to the lion's den. "That's right, I'm Inga Olofsson." She gave a confident nod, adding a ja? for good measure.
The butler grinned. "Follow me, Olofsson." He strode across the entrance hall and up a wide spiral staircase.
Dark and cavernous, the hall held little furniture. Thea paused for a moment. There were no paintings on the wall. None whatsoever.
She'd never seen walls so very bare and devoid of art.
She had to trot to catch up. The wavering light from his lantern was the only illumination keeping her from tumbling down the black-and-white marble stairs and breaking her neck. The duke certainly preferred his house dark.
The butler paused outside a massive carved wood door. "He's unclothed and ready."
Thea stared. Surely he hadn't said unclothed.
A low moan emanated from inside the room, the eerie sound reminding Thea of nothing so much as a caged wild animal. She shivered.
"Not frightened, are you?" The butler's whiskers bristled when he grinned. "He's quite harmless, really," he whispered conspiratorially. "Only devours two or three young ladies per day."
Ladies? Thea searched the butler's face. "I'm not frightened," she said, attempting to believe it was true.
The flood of righteous resentment that had swept her here began to flow again. The duke ruined everything on purpose. He had no right to interfere with my plans.
She straightened her shoulders. "Lead on, sir."
"In you go then, love." The butler opened the door. "Remove those boots and climb aboard."
Climb aboard?
Heavens. What on earth had she agreed to do?
"Er," Thea whispered desperately. "There's been a mistake. I'm not really-"
"I'll leave you now, Olofsson," the butler said loudly. He gave her a little push into the room.
The door closed with an ominous thud. Thea nearly dove for the knob and ran straight back across the square. This had been a spectacularly bad idea. Perhaps she should pen an excoriating letter instead. She'd be assured of choosing precisely the perfect invectives that way.
You're not scared, are you?
Thea took a deep breath.
Fear had dictated her actions too long.
She had a right to be here after what the duke had done. A right to speak her mind, demand that he make reparations. Ensure she could retire to Ireland as planned.
She stood at a crossroads.
The well-worn path of silence and obedience stretched back to her house, to the unbearable weight of her family's expectations, and beyond, to a loveless, miserable marriage.
The path of courage and adventure lay ahead.
In the duke's bedchamber.
She pivoted toward the majestic, towering bed that dominated the center of the room.
What she saw upon that bed nearly stole what remained of her bravery.
Miles and miles of duke. Face down.
Very much unclothed.
Well, there was a thin linen sheet covering his lower half, but it didn't do much to hide the lines of his taut, rounded backside and powerful thighs.
Thea's first sight of a nude male not carved from marble or fashioned from bronze quite took her breath away. All those ridges and valleys on the vast landscape of his back, shadowed and gleaming in the firelight.
So much powerful virility.
So much overbearing arrogance, she reminded herself.
And then the true enormity of her task became clear.
She was meant to climb.
On top.
Of a duke.
She should have brought a rope and pickaxe. This wasn't a crossroads-it was a mountain expedition.
Thea unlaced her boots. She'd probably be unceremoniously ejected the second the duke saw her face. Best to continue the charade as long as possible. Find just the right moment to spring her demands upon him.
She approached the bed on wobbly, yet determined, limbs.
"You're late, Olofsson," the duke growled, not bothering to raise his head. "It's the right shoulder again. Seized up so I can barely move it." He flexed the bulging muscles in his shoulder and moaned. "Work your magic."
Er, what magic was that?
If Olofsson ministered to his shoulder, and not other parts of his anatomy, then she was a . . . nurse?
Thea must mount him and . . . then what? What exactly did this Olofsson person do?
When she was closer she could see by the light from the thick candles in bronze stands on either side of the bed that his eyes were tightly closed.
There was a thin red line along his jawline that hadn't been there last night when they waltzed. Had he fought a duel? It was entirely possible. Some of the married ladies he dallied with must have jealous husbands.
"I haven't got all night, Olofsson," the duke said impatiently. "I promise not to bite. Climb up and walk around."
Right, then. She could do this.
Thea stepped onto a low wooden stool and hoisted herself onto the bed, then, cautiously, she crawled onto his back on her knees and slowly, very slowly, rose until she was standing.
The hard hillocks of his muscles made it difficult to find a flat resting place.
"Walk, Olofsson, walk!"
She clung to the velvet bed hangings for support as she trod across the enormous expanse of his back toward his shoulder.
"Ah," he moaned. "Yes, that's the location. Stay there a moment."