Page 60 of The Duchess Games

Chapter Twenty-Two

Callum and Blackpool returned from combing the grove with no culprit, just a few tracks that led into the fields and disappeared. No one seemed particularly concerned and the reigning theory that village children had snuck onto the grounds and stolen a bow to play with held.

But Cat wasn’t so sure.

Killing a duke was as close to treason as you could get without involving the actual Crown. There would be no running or hiding for the culprit. You would need to be very careful and whoever had loosed that arrow was not careful.

Or else he had very bad aim.

Because it occurred to her that Callum had walked into the path of the arrow. She wasn’t convinced it was meant for him. But had he not been there, had he stayed at the sidelines like a normal duke, drinking and being flattered, Mr. Armstrong would have been the target.

Had the archer known a bow from his backside, that was.

Killing a duke was not generally worth the hassle, but killing a Revenue Man?

Juro.

It had to be. No one else was so bold and impulsive.

Not to mention, idiotic.

If he took control of smuggling in Little Crumpet, half of the village would see the bowels of Bodmin jail. Or the noose.

She had half a mind to march down to the pub right now and strangle him.

A murdered customs agent on a duke’s property, and a duke nearly killed in the process? They’d be overrun with agents and magistrates and soldiers already gathered to fight the French. They’d never make the drop. She needed a show of strength—better, a show of cleverness to get the others to stand down before Juro incited a riot. Didn’t he understand this was meant to be stealthy work? Percival would make a better ringleader. And he had a tendency to chew on the furniture and occasionally piddle on the rug.

She waited until after dinner and after charades—which Callum did not attend to no one’s surprise—until after late night billiards, until everyone had found their beds. She had last seen Callum striding across the back lawns under the stars in his haste to escape the party. She hadn’t heard him return.

There was no better time.

No one heard her creep down the stairs, and no one saw her slip into his library.

There was only one problem.

The bloody signet ring was not on his desk.

Nor was it in any of the drawers, not behind a book on the shelf, not on the mantlepiece. She grew more and more agitated, cursing under her breath as she rifled through his personal belongings like a proper thief.

The ring simply was not here. Was he still wearing it? At this hour?

She slumped against the desk, dejected. But only for a moment. If she could process a pilchard harvest when it came in, stinking of oil and seaweed, then she could do this. If the signet ring was not here then it was most likely in his chambers. Perhaps he had taken it off and tossed it onto a table.

After all, no one would dare steal a duke’s signet ring.

Enter Caitriona Sparrow.

Into said duke’s bedchamber.

She darted inside, thanks to the key she had bribed into her possession. She didn’t breathe until she saw the bed pristinely made, a single lamp burning on the windowsill. No Callum. The window was open, bringing in the sound of the wind, of crickets singing in the warm shadows. She could not allow herself to be distracted by the books piled here and there and her fingers itching to pick them up. Itching to know the titles, if he liked them. Were they histories? Farming manuals? Poetry?

She went straight for his shaving table with its serpentine drawers and lion’s head pulls. There was very little frippery on the table, no cluttered scents or cravat pins. Just a comb and a jug of water for washing.

And his signet ring.

Relief and triumph went through her in equal measures. There was a curl of guilt, but she pushed it aside. She would not harm his name or his good standing. She closed her hand around the ring until it bit into her palm. That’s the badger, as her Da would say. And on with ’ee.

“I admit the family coat of arms is not my favorite,” Callum spoke suddenly from the doorway. “The acorns look like squashed tadpoles.”