Free A Belated Bride by Karen Hawkins Page B

know a damn thing about the jewels.” Not to mention the unpleas- ant side effects: Aunt Jane’s tonic had left him so taut with desire that he could barely think.
    And he’d let that unrelenting desire ruin his one chance to speak with Arabella. This morning, he’d been on his way to find Hastings to move his things to the guest room, when Arabella had suddenly appeared in the hallway. She’d been dressed in a worn frock, the thin material clinging to her curves in a familiar, loving way. Soot was streaked across her creamy skin and made her eyes appear that much darker. She looked flushed, hot, and utterly desirable.
    But then, she always had.
    Hastings held up a dressing jacket. “Your Grace, if you will lift your arm, I believe I can get this over your band- age.”
    Lucien allowed his valet to assist him, then simply knotted a cravat about his throat, unable to create a more fashionable arrangement without the use of his hurt arm. It didn’t really matter if he had the chance to speak with Arabella; it wouldn’t change things. And she was right: He had worn out his welcome at Rosemont ten years ago. The best course was to finish what he had come to do
    and leave as quickly as possible. He’d already sent one report to the Home Office telling them of his accident and his failure to meet the contact. Now all he had to do was reschedule the meeting, discover the extent of the opera- tion, and report back to London. The Home Office would handle everything from there.
    Lucien absently rubbed his shoulder. A pity he hadn’t made it to his meeting before being run down by Ara- bella’s carriage. “Hastings, have you seen to Satan?”
    “Yes, Your Grace. I fear he has made himself quite at home. In fact, he challenged the horse in the next stall to a fight. Fortunately, that stalwart equine specimen was too well bred to accept.”
    Lucien chuckled. Like Hastings, Satan was full of blus- ter and had a deplorable tendency to puff off. However, when the chips were down, Lucien could not think of a better, more reliable mount—nor a more trustworthy, though irritating, valet.
    Truthfully, Hastings possessed a large number of unusual skills. Lucien wasn’t quite sure of the details of the man’s past. Several years ago, Viscountess Hunter- ston, a reformer and the wife of Lucien’s closest friend, had begun a servant referral service wherein she gathered slum dwellers and prostitutes of London’s lowest streets and trained them for respectable positions. Once they had completed their training, Julia then foisted them onto hap- less members of the ton.
    Somewhere along the way, Hastings had become one of the viscountess’s special projects. To Lucien’s chagrin, Julia had decided that her newest project merited the household of a duke. By then, he was the only duke who did not run in the opposite direction whenever he saw her coming, mainly because she was married to Alec.
    Lucien had had his doubts as to whether Hastings
    would make a proper valet, but these misgivings were soon put to rest—the man had an amazing ability to blend in with any surroundings. It was one of a wide variety of unusual skills the valet possessed.
    He glanced at Hastings now. “Did anyone stop by the inn after my accident?”
    The valet paused in the middle of polishing a silver brush. “A Mr. Mumferd inquired after you, Your Grace. He was most upset to discover you were not present.”
    “Did he leave a message?”
    “No, but I must say that he was uncommonly vulgar.” Hastings wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foreign. “I ventured to follow him. He traveled by decrepit nag to an inn called the Red Rooster.”
    “ You followed him?”
    Hastings bowed. “Of course, my lord. By then, it was apparent that something had gone amiss with your ven- ture.” The valet finished polishing the brush. He laid it down and picked up a mirror and began to work on it, careful not to meet Lucien’s gaze. “I find it most distress-