“Damnit, woman!” He exploded toward her, gripping the arms of the chair she sat in, hissing in her face. “Don’t say such things out loud.” He straightened and turned back to his desk, saying in the same voice he’d inquire about the weather, “But by all means, carry on.”
Devonmere and Bennington weren’t the only ones who didn’t need rumors, and dead women told no tales.
Chapter 23
Grayson didn’t know what kind of welcome to expect from Tobias Blake when he knocked on the door of his bachelor’s abode, but it wasn’t Tobias answering his own door in ungartered stockings and an untucked shirt.
“Oh,” Tobias said, blinking at the sun while holding a tumbler-toting hand up to block the light. “What time is it?”
Grayson shoved a foot into the doorframe in case Tobias decided to slam the door in his face. “Time for you to make up for your misdeeds.”
Tobias turned and roamed away from the front door. “It’s you. Interesting. I suppose.” He hiccupped. “But tedious. Come to knock me over the head again?”
Grayson followed him down a short hall and into a library with a roaring fire. “I need your help.”
“And why should I help you?” Tobias drawled.
“Because you are responsible for this whole mess.” Grayson bit off each word, swallowing his anger each time. He needed Tobias, and Tobias did have sins to make up for. Grayson looked at the books scattered across a nearby table. “Why are you reading Shakespeare? Is this where you get your ideas for interfering with others’ lives?”
Tobias sighed, dropped into an armchair, and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been in a singular mood for gloom and doom. I didn’t invite you in, by the way. Do you think you could show yourself out?”
“No. Now sober up. I suppose I’ll say again, I need your help.”
“With Henrietta, I suppose. You have a love-crazed look about you.” He pretended to gag.
“You’ll help me, or I will crack you over the skull again, though it’s so thick you’ll barely notice.”
Tobias reached a hand to his left eye, swollen and purple from Grayson’s fist. “I wish you’d hit me below the cravat. This black eye actually matches my coat.”
“You’re not wearing a coat.”
“I can’t until the bloody eye heals. Now go away, cretin.”
Grayson sat, trying not to be distracted by the question of what color Tobias’s coat would have to be to match his purple, blue eye.
Tobias groaned, poking the sensitive swollen flesh.
What right had the coward to groan? What right had he to his fire and brandy and Shakespeare and comfort when he’d thrown their lives into turmoil? “Why, Tobias? Why did you tell the Duchess of Valingford?”
“Because I’m a miserable ass, my friend.”
“At least you know truth when you see it! What are you going to do about it?”
“One can’t change one’s nature. The villain is always the villain, the fool the fool, and the lover’s always in love.”
“You’re not in love, so which are you—the villain or the fool?”
“The fool, of course.”
Grayson snorted. No need to deny it.
Tobias shifted in his chair, as if the seat cushion had turned into a pile of rocks. “I lied last year because I hated you then. You’d become a viscount, would be a duke one day. And I’d thought you’d thrown over my sister for better, titled prospects. I hated you.” He spit the words through contorted lips. Then his face smoothed, the fire in his eyes died, and he brushed an invisible speck of lint off his shoulder. “So, I lied. Then yesterday, I wanted to protect Henrietta. I thought you delusional. I thought you only meant to play with her and leave her. I had no idea Henrietta would come storming out of the room. And,” his voice softened, “I had no idea her grace suspected Hen in the first place. Had I known I never would have …” he swallowed. “I never would have.”
“Make up for it, then.”
Tobias tilted a hopeful gaze Grayson’s way.
“The duchess has threatened not only your sister but your family. Will you sit by and let her?”
