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“Can the lot of you let me do what I came here to do?” The duke’s cold, sharp voice cut through the clamor. “Mr. Trent, I know what you did for me. And I treated you coldly when you did it. I was an arse.”

“A donkey’s arse,” Ben Bailey said.

“More like a monkey’s arse,” Kingston said. “One of those with the vibrantly colored backsides.”

“Yes.” Liam wagged his finger at Kingston. “Just that.”

“Will you fools let me speak?” Clearford grumbled.

Noble slapped him on the back. “You’re just too easy to tease, my friend. But do go on, and we’ll hold our japes for later.”

The duke sat tall, and his cravat bobbed, as if his throat worked through something difficult behind it. His eyes darted about the room, then settled hard on Rowan. “I apologize. It is no excuse for terrible manners, but I was rather…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Distracted the night of the ball. Distraught, even. You ended what was rather a nightmarish time for me. I do not think I can thank you enough.”

“Thank your sister, Lady Isabella.”

The duke’s gaze wavered. “Yes, she told me of her part in the scheme. She told me a little about how she is acquainted with you. I suspect there is much more to the story. She seems… lost these last few days. Sad and… angry.”

Nobel whistled. “The Merriweather sisters know how to do anger.”

The maid brought a tray of mugs and left them on the table.

Rowan snapped one up and inhaled the rich, steaming scent. “You’re all married to Clearford’s sisters? Is this… a club?”

“I’m not.” Liam raised a finger. “I’m actually not quite certain why I’ve been dragged along.”

“Because Cora might as well be one of them.” Mr. Bailey leanedback, stacking his feet on top of a chair on the other side of the table. “Now remain seated and show support for the duke.”

“Supporting Clearford is not why we’re all here, though, is it?” Liam said. “We’re here to test this fellow, to see if he’s worthy of Lady Isabella.”

“Don’t you already know enough about me to know I’m not?” The words like gristle between Rowan’s teeth.

“We don’t know you at all,” Kingston said. His half lowered eyelids and deep voice should have comforted if it hadn’t made him seem like the most dangerous among them. “In most cases, knowing the broad bits and pieces of a man isn’t enough. You run a successful hotel, and Admiral Garrison speaks highly of you. That’s something.”

“But you seem to have shattered my sister’s heart,” Clearford growled.

Liam leaned over and whispered much too loudly, “Don’t worry, he’s stopped with the knives.”

Rowan almost spit out his coffee. Knives? Isabella had mentioned them, too… “I wasn’t worried until you said that.” He rested his cup carefully on the table. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you love my sister?” Clearford would not accept a lie or even a half answer.

“What does it matter if I do? She’s your sister, and I’m a sailor’s son with mud on his boots.”

The men laughed again, all but Clearford.

“I see nothing amusing.” Anger simmered in his chest, and his fingers bounced on his thigh.

“How many men are around this table?” Kingston asked.

“Six. I may be low, but I know my sums.” Simmering anger began to boil.

“Out of those six,” Kingston said, “only two are who might be considered properton. Not only am I a bastard, but I work in my print shops. So does Ben. Liam wasn’t even supposed to inherit his title. Was a vicar before he was a viscount. And of those two with proper pedigree, one of them’s an arse and the other a fool. I’ll leave you to decide which is which.”

Noble shrugged. “I’ve been both in my lifetime.”

Clearford’s lips thinned, and he leaned forward, pressing his palms into the table. “My sisters get to choose who they wed, Trent. My mother insisted on it, and I’ll honor her wishes, no matter what manner of man they choose, as long as he be good and kind and know full well how lucky he is. Having been so damn close to marrying for reasons other than affection, I can assure you I will never wish them any other fate. If you love Isabella, don’t be a coward about it. I do not like to see my sisters in misery. I like even less those who put them there. I do still know where my knives are. Do you understand?”

He did. Not necessarily about the knives, but about Isabella… he quite understood Clearford’s homicidal reaction to her sadness.