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“Go to sleep, Flick,” he grunted.

And, smiling, she followed his command.

Chapter 17

Sonuvabitch.

Griffin stood in the center of the Duke of Peasgoode’s bedchamber and scowled at the universe.

The packets from Blackrose hadn’t been in the study. They hadn’t been in the library—he’d spent hours in there one night, checking for secret safes or hidden doors, becoming increasingly desperate. They hadn’t been in the clerks’ offices or the closets with the rest of the ledgers, and Griffin’s back ached just remembering how he’d had to hunch over them with the lamp handle clenched in his teeth, searching.

And now, he could confidently say, they weren’t here in the Duke’s chambers either.

Goddamn it.

He’d had to wait until mid-morning, when he knew Duncan would be occupied; knew it, in fact, because he’d been the one to suggest Rupert challenge the old man to a chess match. Granted, the lad was only ten, but he was a good enough chess player he’d give the Duke a contest, and “Uncle Duncan” seemed particularly fond of Griffin’s son.

Perhaps they should start calling him Granda Duncan. He’s certainly acting grandfatherly.

Aye, but if he was their surrogate grandfather, then he’d be Griffin’s surrogate father, and he was here to betray the man’s trust.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore Felicity’s suggestion that neither Duncan nor Ian were the traitor. What if it was neither man?

But it had to be someone. There was someone on this estate who didn’t want Griffin investigating; he could feel it. Aye, the first incident might’ve been an accident, but the next…

He’d been livid to learn about the chandelier dropping atop Flick’s bed. What if she’d been in it? Of course, she’d turned around and asked what if he’d been in it, but he’d scoffed. Certainly, he’d been there with her the first night, but…

And then he remembered how, the first time he’d taken Marcia riding on the impressive estate, he’d found a burr under his mare’s saddle. Again, it might’ve been an accident—thank God he’d found it before the poor animal had bucked him off—but the coincidences were adding up.

Either Peasgoode was the most accident-prone estate, or someone was trying to get rid of Griffin.

And he was beginning to suspect it wasn’t the Duke, and it wasn’t Ian.

Which left…no suspects.

He dragged his hand through his hair and turned slowly in a circle, his stockinged feet making no sound on the carpet, as intended.

Ian’s chambers would’ve been his next place to look—although he would’ve had to arrange a distraction for the man as well—except that idea became irrelevant when he searched these rooms. Whatever relationship the Duke and his secretary had in the eyes of the outside world, his staff here at Peasgoode knew the truth.

There were two sets of shaving gear and two toothbrushes in the bathing room; two sets of reading spectacles on the small table between the cozy set of leather chairs in front of the hearth, and both sides of the bed were slept on.

Ian Armstrong didn’t have separate chambers for Griffin to search for the missing packets, because he was living here.

So where in the everloving fook was the evidence Griffin needed?

Perhaps Flick is right. Perhaps the letters from Blackrose are no’ here because neither of them are guilty?

But he’d been too distracted by the whole her-naked-in-his-bed thing to focus on her words. He’d been too distracted by her in general, lately.

Once, distraction by an intriguing woman like Felicity Montrose could have meant his downfall. These days, he didn’t seem to care much. Not because he was no longer a spy—his very presence in this room proved that wrong!—but because it was her.

He suspected he’d be willing to fall if it meant he could spend another minute in her arms.

Listen to yerself! Ye sound hopeless. Like a man in love.

Love? Griffin snorted softly and shook his head. Nay, he wasn’t in love. He was just completely addicted to the feel of his cock in her cunny.

That was my first time.