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"Drake," Sutton snapped.

"Yes, yes." Lucien finally lifted his head. "Such a pleasure. We finally get to meet the infamous runaway bride."

"You can let go of her hand now," Sutton gritted through his teeth.

Lucien laughed, delighted. He released her, but not before catching Temperance's eye and winking. "Look how jealous he is," he murmured as he strolled past them toward the drawing room. "Absolutely besotted."

Sutton did not dare meet his wife's gaze. His ears burned, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Besotted.

Was he? Besotted with his wife again? Or still?

Had he ever truly stopped? She was not the girl she had been seven years ago, nor was she the woman who had left him a note and fled to the Continent. Yet, the little things he had fallen in love with remained: her warmth, the fire in her eyes, the way she could coax a laugh from him, and her unwavering determination to do what she believed was right, regardless of her fears.

She was capable, talented, and remarkably clever.

A formidable woman, and beautiful to boot—the most beautiful he had ever seen.

Still, every time love and longing swelled within him, his mind returned to the night before their wedding, to her hands in another man's, and the words she had spoken:

I will never love anyone the way I love you.

He could not be certain she didn't still love Landen. And where there was no complete trust, could there truly be love?

"Sutton."

Whitlow's voice at his elbow made him start.

"Whitlow!" Sutton turned to find his man of business impeccably dressed in black, save for a crisp white cravat tied in a simple knot. "Good, you are here. I needed to speak with you."

Sutton had concocted a simple plan: to watch the men on his list of suspects tonight for anything suspicious. He intended to divide the task between himself, Whitlow, and his father.

"I am here as a guest, not your employee, tonight," Whitlow said with a smile.

He was the last to arrive. The line had dwindled to nothing. Beyond the hall, the other guests had drifted into the drawing room.

"Even better. Because I shall need you among the guests."

Over Whitlow's shoulder, something moved at the edge of the corridor, and Sutton's attention sharpened.

Everly.

He glanced left and right before slipping through the servants' door at the far end of the hall, heading toward the back of the house.

The kitchen?

He wouldn't dare to poison everyone at the party, would he?

Sutton could not take any chances. Whatever Everly was doing, it could not be good.

"Enjoy yourself." He clapped Whitlow on the shoulder, then freed his arm from Temperance's hand, which he had not realized was still resting there, and turned toward the back of the house.

"Where are you going?" Temperance asked, looking confused.

"I shall join you in the drawing room in a minute. Please, go ahead," Sutton said, already stalking away.

Chapter Twenty-One