Page 52 of Scoundrel Take Me Away (Dukes in Disguise #3)

But as the night drew on, the tension coiling round Gabriel’s ribs squeezed tighter and tighter. Sir Colin seemed to be waiting for something.

Or perhaps it was Gabriel who was waiting, unable to do more than push his food around his plate. His every sense was trained on the dining room door. When would it happen?

Dessert came. More cheeses, and sweet jellies flavored with wine and red currants alongside a towering plum cake decorated with marzipan rosettes. There were wedges of sliced citrus sparkling with sugar, plucked from Thornecliff’s orangery.

The footmen poured a sweet wine to accompany it, and still, no news came. Lucy and Caroline hadn’t come back downstairs either, and Gabriel wished he could go upstairs to check on her, but he felt rooted to his seat with suspense.

By the time the footmen offered port and cigars, Gabriel was ready to gnaw his own arm off if it would enable him to escape this damned evening.

Sir Colin declined the cigar but took the port, though he didn’t drink it. He merely tilted the cut crystal from side to side, making the port spark ruby fire in the candlelight. He met Gabriel’s eyes over the glass and smiled faintly for the first time.

“What an interesting evening you have provided,” he said softly. His eyes were bright and impenetrable. “I have rarely seen such a fine performance.”

Gabriel’s spine wanted to pull rigidly straight, all the tension in him jerking him upright, but he forced himself to give a languid smile.

“Always happy to entertain a civil servant. I haven’t seen His Majesty in an age.

Perhaps we should invite him to Thornecliff next. What is it you do for the king, again?”

He’d have liked to make Sir Colin squirm at the reminder that Gabriel was on familiar terms with the king, but Sir Colin merely tilted his port glass the other way. “It is my job to administer the king’s justice,” he replied. “No matter who that justice happens to fall upon.”

A chill ran under Gabriel’s skin, but he didn’t let it show. “Sounds like a dangerous job. What if you get it wrong? Accuse the wrong person?”

Sir Colin tilted the glass the other direction. Gabriel came within a hairsbreadth of striking it from his hand. He imagined the sound of the crystal shattering against the wall with vivid precision.

“I am never wrong,” Sir Colin said, utterly without pride. “Do you know why, Your Grace?”

When Gabriel swallowed, it felt as though the shards of cut crystal from his imagination lined his throat. “Why?”

“Because I am patient.” Sir Colin’s head turned toward the door a fraction of a second before the butler appeared. “Ah. Here we are.”

So he had been waiting for something, Gabriel thought with a rising sense of foreboding. A quick glance down the table showed a similar unease pressing Uncle Roman’s brows into a stern line.

“A message for Sir Colin,” intoned the butler, looking a trifle beleaguered. “This…person insisted upon delivering the message himself, Your Grace. I do apologize for the interruption.”

“Not at all,” Gabriel said automatically. “Let him come forward.”

A squalid little man stepped out from behind Mr. Spofford, looking as though he’d quite like to spit at the butler’s feet in thanks for having been kept waiting.

He was solidly built through the torso, with the somewhat spindly legs of a man who did most of his talking with his fists, and he wore a frankly offensive checked hat.

“Mr. Obadiah Bridges, Yer Graces. Here on important business, I am,” he boasted, though when he caught sight of Sir Colin’s expressionless face, he became meek.

“What is it, Mr. Bridges?” Sir Colin asked calmly. “You may speak plainly. I think we will all be interested to hear your news.”

Puffing his chest out importantly, Mr. Bridges said, “Well, as to that, there’s been another robbery, ’asn’t there? Mere moments ago, ‘long the Baff Road, just t’other side of Lambourn. A heavy purse and a silver and opal ring snaffled off a Mr. Graves, traveling with his daughter.”

“Good Lord,” said Uncle Roman, playing his part. “Who is the thief?”

“That famous highwayman, The Gentle Rogue,” said Mr. Bridges with obvious relish.

“Was he captured?” Gabriel cut in, unable to bear the tension.

Mr. Bridgers paused, seemed to enjoy the taut silence of his rapt audience. “Nah. Got clean away, he did.”

Gabriel couldn’t help the shudder of relief that racked him. Dom was all right. He’d made it through. Across the table, Uncle Roman’s gray eyes met his, and for a single instant they were in perfect harmony.

“That will be all, Spofford,” Gabriel said lightly. “You may show Mr. Bridges to the kitchen and give him some supper, if he likes.”

Gabriel took a sip of port. The heavy sweetness of it lingered on his tongue, as sweet as the taste of victory that lasted until Fitz said, with his characteristic air of earnest foolishness, “Well, isn’t that a turnup for the books?

Do you know, Sir Colin, Lady Lucy mentioned earlier today that you had a wild theory about The Gentle Rogue and who he might be. Care to share it with the rest of us?”

Biting back a grin, Gabriel silently begged his friend’s pardon. It never paid to underestimate Fitz. He always knew more about what was going on than he seemed. And now, with one seemingly innocent question, he’d forced the issue into the open.

Sir Colin would have to admit, before witnesses, that Gabriel could not be The Gentle Rogue.

He transferred his attention to the agent of the Crown, expecting him to look furious or befuddled or frustrated or even blank, as he’d looked all evening.

But no. Gabriel’s heart constricted oddly at the faint air of satisfaction that emanated from Sir Colin.

“I do have a theory,” he said, eyes gleaming. “And tonight has convinced me, as never before, that I am correct.”

“What do you mean?” Uncle Roman demanded.

“You know what I mean,” Sir Colin said, a hint of reproof coloring his tone. “You participated in tonight’s theatrics. I commend you, by the by. I would not have taken you for an actor.”

“How dare you, sir?” Truly, no one did frosty superiority like Uncle Roman.

“I dare because I am the king’s man,” Sir Colin replied placidly. “I bear his sigil. I speak with his voice. And with all the authority vested in me by His Majesty, King George: Gabriel de Vere, Duke of Thornecliff, you are under arrest.”

The room erupted.

“I say,” cried Fitz, sticking his elbow in the butter dish in his agitation.

“That’s absurd,” laughed Gabriel.

But it was Uncle Roman’s bellow of, “Over my dead body,” that brought the proceedings to a standstill.

Strangely warmed by the show of support, Gabriel focused on Sir Colin. Who, it must be said, looked only slightly shaken by Roman’s fire-breathing fury. One had to give the man credit for not being a coward, though Gabriel was starting to think he might be a simpleton.

“Leaving aside the fact that it is, on the face of it, ludicrous to accuse a duke of robbing people for petty change and trinkets,” Gabriel said, arching a brow, “how on earth do you make out that I could have robbed anyone this evening? I was here, with you, the entire time.”

“Yes,” Sir Colin agreed. “But your cousin, Mr. Dominic de Vere, was not.”

Fuck.

“My cousin and I are estranged,” Gabriel said carefully. “As you seem to already know. What would make you expect him to be here?”

Sir Colin held up one finger. “You and your uncle are also supposed to be estranged, yet here he is.” He held up a second finger.

“And I saw Mr. de Vere yesterday at The Prancing Pony, conversing with your betrothed, Lady Lucy Lively. They seemed on friendly enough terms to merit the favor of an invitation to dine tonight…or perhaps, for your cousin to do you a different sort of favor.”

A sensation overtook Gabriel like having a sack flung over his head, suffocating and instantaneous blackness. “You’re mad.”

“Am I?” Sir Colin tutted. “I’m not the one who asked my cousin to dress up in my highwayman costume to rob innocents along the Bath Road to establish my own alibi. Your Grace.”

Fitz cried, “Preposterous!” as seawater flooded Gabriel’s mouth and lungs, choking him, but his hands were tied. He was going to drown. Stars burst behind his eyelids.

It was all over. They’d failed.

Gabriel was going to hang for crimes he couldn’t even remember committing.

A tap at the door broke into the stifling, silent staring contest between Gabriel and Sir Colin. The agent of the Crown glanced quickly at the doorway, then did a double take, his eyes going wide and shocked.

Feeling as though he was moving through molasses, Gabriel turned slowly to see Dominic stroll into the dining room, impeccably attired in a well-cut suit, not a hair out of place.

He certainly didn’t look as though he’d been riding hell for leather over hill and dale for the past two hours.

“Sorry I’m late for supper,” he said jovially. “Got involved in the very devil of a game of whist back at the Pony with Sir Winston, from over at Blanton Hall. Lost track of time. What did I miss?”

Sir Colin was on his feet in an instant, striding to the door.

“Get Bridges,” he shouted into the hallway before turning back to Dom. “You. Where did you say you were?”

Dom blinked innocently. “At The Prancing Pony, playing cards? With Sir Winston Lowood, of Blanton Hall. Why, do you know him?”

“We’ve met,” Sir Colin said, through gritted teeth.

Casting a furious glance at one of the footmen standing against the wall, doing his best to pretend he couldn’t hear any of these extraordinary goings-on, he spat, “Send someone to The Prancing Pony to fetch Sir Winston, if he’s still there, or the landlady, if he’s not. ”

“What’s all this about?” Dom asked loudly while Gabriel gave a nod to the hesitating footman to tell him to go ahead and follow Sir Colin’s directives.