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He nearly groaned in agony when he broke the kiss. He wanted so much more. Not just in that moment, he realized, but in his life. He wanted Helena completely to himself, but he could not have her.

“You should go,” he rasped, his voice strained with emotion as he brought them both to their feet.

Helena looked back at him longingly, still dazed, her lips still swollen from his demanding kiss, and he had to force his hands to let go of her.

“But, you are hurt…” she all but whimpered.

In so many ways, little one.

“I will be fine,” he forced himself to say. “And so will you. I apologize again for today. It will not happen again.”

“Morgan…”

“Go,” he commanded, this time more gruffly. “I will send for you when I am ready.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Pardon, Your Grace, but you have a Mr. Varley at the door,” Morgan’s valet, Claude, announced.

Morgan’s words and train of thought ceased as he heard the name, but he smiled charismatically at the gentlemen seated before him and said smoothly, “I believe my next appointment has arrived. Can I answer any further questions before we conclude?”

“Looks like another solid trade investment to me,” Lord Barryl replied cordially, standing up.

“I shall leave you to it, Lord Grandhill,” Lord Shanks stated. “All seems to be well in order as usual.”

Morgan shook their hands calmly, hiding the growing tension inside him as he thought of the man waiting to see him. After Helena’s last visit he was left feeling disjointed and uneasy. Though he had finally accepted that he was falling in love with her he knew he could not have her.

Still, that did not mean that he could let her marry Luke. Something was off with the man. Something familiar, cold and evil, but he could not put his finger on it, so he had once again called upon Mr. Varley, a private investigator who had assisted him during the investigation into his father’s death.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Varley greeted pleasantly, bowing to Morgan as he was shown into his office.

Morgan gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he poured out two glasses of whiskey.

“Mr. Varley,” Morgan greeted, handing him a glass, “I am surprised to see you again so quickly.”

“My investigation is not concluded,” Mr. Varley warned quickly, pulling a folded letter from the inside of his jacket. “I am afraid that your viscount’s past is still wrapped in mystery, but when I found this I knew I had to come to you immediately.”

Whiskey forgotten, Morgan set down his glass and reached for the offered paper. He quickly read over its contents and his eyes snapped to a particular word on the page. Without bothering to finish reading the rest, Morgan looked up from the letter and pinned Mr. Varley with an intense stare.

“Where did you find this?” he demanded.

“As you know, Your Grace, a man’s office can hold quite many secrets,” Mr. Varley replied with a shrug, then took a drink of his whiskey.

Morgan did not know why he had even bothered to ask as he returned his attention to the word burning a hole in the page.Whittler.The man responsible for their fathers’ deaths. The man they had sent to prison just a few months’ earlier.

“The viscount’s office, however, was quite sparse when it came to personal information,” Varley continued. “It was strange, really, how little of himself could be found in the space. Even this letter contains no trace of him. Yet, for some reason, he has correspondence from this particular man.”

“It makes no sense,” Morgan mused, reading over the instructions in the letter. Like the others Ezra had found months ago, this one provided simple instructions as to when and where the dukes were to meet. “Why would he have this? Ayles is only five-and-twenty, he would have been a mere child when our fathers were killed.”

“I will keep searching for that very reason,” Mr. Varley assured him, “but my suspicion thus far is that he is somehow related or attached to Whittler. His paternal history is unknown. It is possible thatWhittlercould be his father.”

It was a leap, and a big one, but it was enough to take to Ambrose, Morgan decided. Even ifWhittlerwas not Luke’s father, it was still suspicious that he held a letter written by their fathers’ murderer.

“Do you have any more leads?” Morgan asked.

“I have discovered the name of his mother. Francis Trawley,” Mr. Varley explained. “She was a lady’s maid, but she died about six years ago. I have found traces of her work history, and will figure out where she was working when she became pregnant. Then I will begin tracking down her old coworkers, to see if they remember her ever mentioning someone of interest.”

Morgan pulled out his billfold and handed Mr. Varley a stack of pounds.