Page 162 of Dukes for Dessert

“Mother,” they said in unison.

Even with the first spare to the heir, Charles, very nearly wed, their mother would not be happy until her remaining children were properly wed. More precisely—Damian. She bore down on them with an intentness in her hard, ice blue stare.

Gregory groaned. “She has the look.”

“Yes, yes she does.” They all knew the one. The look that said, even with the costumed ball, she planned on matchmaking, and as she’d already settled on Lady Minerva for Damian, this matchmaking likely involved the youngest Renshaw brother.

“Go.”

Gregory’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “You’re being magnanimous? You’re never magnanimous.”

Mother was nearly upon them. “Unless, you’d care to meet the young woman she’s selected…”

His brother spun on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

“Wherever did Gregory take himself off to?”

Damian glanced from the corner of his eye. “Mother.” Unbidden, he looked for the lady plastering herself against his wall. He scanned the ballroom for the glint of metal, but it was as though she’d at last managed to merge herself with the wall and disappear from sight. Gone. Damian set aside the fleeting intrigue. With the exception of the members of his family, he didn’t make it his business to wonder after anyone or worry about them, and a lady likely meeting a lover certainly held little appeal.

“Blast, I was trying to coordinate an introduction between him and Miss Carol Cresswall, the Viscount Fennimore’s sister.” She jerked her chin toward a shepherdess. “Regardless,” she said on a wave. “Minerva has arrived.”

“Has she?” he asked in clipped tones. He found this annual masquerade quite tedious. In fact, he found balls, soirees, trips to the theatre, all of it tedious.

“Must you act as though you find your own ball tedious?”

“It’s hardly my ball,” he drawled. In truth, none of it interested him. Nothing, really interested him. There were the responsibilities to see to: his three brothers, one particularly trouble-seeking and an oft-displeased mama. The armor-clad warrior, however, had interested him.

He turned to go.

“Are you leaving?” she squawked.

Damian paused. “I’ve put in my requisite appearance, Mother.” He tugged out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. “Good evening.” He spun on his heel and left the indignant duchess gape-mouthed.

He marched through the crowd, glad to put the boisterous cheer behind him and enjoy the quiet calm of his office.

* * *

Theo stole down the corridor. Her thin-soled, booted feet were noiseless against the blood red carpet. Perfect shade for the Devil Duke. She wrinkled her nose. After all, it was likely red because he’d used her family’s ancient weapon and slayed his foes, of which he had many. He must. Granted he was a duke, but by the reports, he was a scarred, foul-tempered beast. She paused at the end of the hall and looked left and right. With the corridors empty of servants and couples stealing away from the festivities, Theodosia then darted across the intersecting hall and came to an abrupt stop.

Then tiptoeing past, one, two, three, and four doors indicated by Herbie, she paused. Before her courage deserted her, she shoved the door open and slipped inside. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the dimly lit space. Theo closed the door quietly behind her with a click that sounded like a shot in the silence.

Her heart hammered, the steady beat of her pulse deafening in her ears. So this was the Devil’s lair. She scanned the massive space, wrinkling her nose. Or was it the Devil’s den?

Den. Lair. He probably had both. As did the Duke of Devlin.

She gave her head a clearing shake. “Focus, Theodosia,” she muttered to herself and did a slow circle about, searching for the broadsword. Nay, her family’s broadsword.

She took in the broad, immaculate, mahogany desk. “Likely because he doesn’t actually see to any real work,” she whispered to herself. A man whose family stole from others and built their successes off those same people he’d trampled upon would likely turn his responsibilities over to hardworking stewards and barristers.

A gold framed painting hung over the fireplace mantel caught her notice. Drawn to the glimmer in the dark, she wandered close. Tilting her head back she stared at the tragic image captured upon the canvas. A chill coursed along her spine. There was nothing romantic or beautiful in the image. A warrior in full armor with his head bowed while a massive weapon was brought down, forever frozen with the edge of steel one sliver away from the end.

What an awful way to be memorialized in time. In spite of herself, she hugged her arms to herself, and her own armor clanged noisily. The shiver of apprehension spread out, filling every corner of her being at the similarity between her and this unknown figure forever a brush-stroke away from death. The implications of her being here at last fully registering. Even as her family knew their rightful ownership of the weapon, the Devil Duke, and the rest of the world, would not see it that way.

Her family wielded little power and influence where Devlin and his kin were concerned.

“The sword, the sword,” she reminded herself, giving her head a shake as she returned to her purpose in stealing into the duke’s home. She scanned his office for a hint of metal.

What if Herbie had been incorrect? What if—