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Her son was still staring at Griffin. “It’s no’ a lie. Gruff is a spy, are ye no’?”

Without raising his head, Griffin mumbled, “I dinnae ken what ye’re talking about.”

“Thorne visits ye weekly.” Bull turned on her, his hands twitching, thumbs touching each finger alternately, a sure sign of his agitation. “He says he’s just stopping by to check on me, to report to Rourke, but Marcia says he also visits the Calderbanks.”

Marcia was nodding. “That’s right. Papa said Viscount Thornebury is an old friend.”

“Aye, an old friend from Blackrose’s service!”

At the lad’s triumphant announcement, Griffin swung up and about and ended facing them with his fists raised. “What?” He paused, breathing heavily, and Felicity doubted he was aware of how defensive he looked.

“Good heavens,” she whispered, eyes wide. “You are a spy!”

His thunderous glare turned on her, but she was too shocked to watch her words. “It makes sense! Your concern about your family’s safety, your scars, the fact that Thorne visits…you worked for Blackrose, did you not?”

He took a step toward her, his fists still raised. “How in the f-fudge do you ken that name, milady?”

Surprisingly, Felicity wasn’t afraid. Yes, he radiated anger, but beneath that anger, beneath the barely controlled power…there was fear in his blue eyes. Instinctively she stepped forward, but then Bull was beside her.

“Gruff, my name is Bull Lindsay.”

Griffin didn’t take his gaze from her. “Aye?”

“Lindsay, as in the Lindsays of Exingham.”

Lindsay, as in Rourke Lindsay, the current Duke of Exingham, Blackrose’s Blade.

But Bull didn’t say that part. He didn’t need to; Felicity knew enough from her friend Georgia, who’d married one of Blackrose’s agents.

Griffin’s eyes had widened. His fists uncurled, but only far enough to allow him to drag his hands through his hair. “Shite,” he muttered as he turned away. “Ye ken Rourke Lindsay? His history? Ye’re—what? His cousin?”

Instead of explaining that Rourke was Bull’s half-brother, Felicity raised a brow in Marcia’s direction. “Is shite an acceptable word to use in your presence, but fu—other words are not?”

The lass shrugged. “I don’t always understand Papa’s linguistic rules.”

The menfolk ignored them.

“Rourke’s old partners were Thorne and Demon Hayle, the new Duke of Lickwick,” Bull offered. “I ken all about their investigation.”

Felicity nodded, although Griffin had braced his hands against the desk and wasn’t looking at them. “And I am close with Demon’s wife.”

Granted, she hadn’t seen Georgia since she’d married the reclusive Lickwick and retired to Aberdeenshire, but that hadn’t stopped them from writing to one another.

“Wait…” Marcia was standing with her hands on her hips, her head cocked to one side. “You’re saying Papa is a spy? I thought when we wrote that, Bull, it was a joke!”

“It was a shite joke,” rasped Griffin.

Felicity made a mental note about shite and fudge.

You know, it would likely be for the best if you just were very, very careful with your language around Marcia—and especially Rupert. You would not want to anger Griffin by introducing new words to their vocabulary.

The girl rested her hand against her father’s back. “Papa?”

Griffin made a noise, as if he’d started to say something…then ceased.

Felicity decided it was up to her to explain. “Marcia, dear… Your father was a spy.”

“A…hero?”