Sir Hugh frowned. “I’m sure it’s all nonsense. Why would anyone have wanted to shoot Lady Weston? Unless…”
Noble snatched the note back from Rosse’s hand. “There is no ‘unless’ about it. No one would have cause to hurt Gillian except as a means of hurting me.”
“Hold on now, Noble,” Sir Hugh cried as Noble spun on his heel and demanded his hat and stick. “You’re not thinking clearly; your mind is muddled. There is someone who could want to see her destroyed.”
Noble stopped so abruptly that the shorter man ran into his back. “Who?” he ground out, not bothering to turn around.
Sir Hugh danced to the side. “If you just apply your mind to the matter, I’m sure it will become clear, Noble. There’s only one man — or at least there’s only one at this point — with whom your wife has been disporting herse—”
The words stopped in his throat as Noble spun around and wrapped his hand around the baronet’s neck, lifting him off the ground. “My wife did not disport herself with anyone, Tolly. Is that clear?”
“Noble, let him down, you’re choking him,” Rosse said, placing a hand on his friend’s arm.
“Is that clear?” Noble said again, his eyes never leaving Sir Hugh’s face. The baronet’s eyes rolled back, but he managed enough of a nod to satisfy Noble.
“I will take care of McGregor tomorrow morning,” Noble said, claiming his hat and walking stick and storming out the door.
“Where are you going now?” Rosse asked, following him to his carriage.
“Home,” Noble told the coachman grimly, and then jumped into the carriage. “I’m going to make sure that bastard hasn’t harmed my wife and son.”
The mistresses looked at one another with chagrin.
“My lady,” Beverly said finally, “that’s…I don’t believe…I’ve never been asked that question by one of my gentlemen’s wives before.”
The other mistresses nodded.
“In fact, while we are speaking on the subject, I can honestly say that I’ve never met any of my gentlemen’s wives.”
The other three mistresses nodded again.
“It’s just not done.” Charlotte nodded with them. “Bad ton.”
“Oh, Charlotte, what do you know about it?” Gillian said with a frown at her grinning cousin. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
“You asked me.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Ha!”
“Lady Weston, perhaps if you were to tell us why you’ve asked that so very unusual question, we might better be able to answer it.”
“Ah. Well, it’s very simple, really. My husband loved his first wife very deeply—”
Laura gave a ladylike snort of disbelief.
“I beg your pardon, Laura? Did you say something?”
“I snorted in disbelief, my lady.”
“Disbelief? Over something I said?”
“Yes, my lady. Gentlemen who love their wives very deeply do not keep mistresses.”
Gillian thought about that.
“Good point, Mistress Laura,” Charlotte said with approval. “If Lord Weston loved his Elizabeth so very much, Gilly, why did he have a string of ladybirds?”
Gillian chewed on her lower lip.
“I saw her once, you know,” Anne piped up. “At Drury Lane. She was in the box of another gentleman.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “And?”
“She was…ah…fondling him.”
Gillian blinked at her in surprise. “Elizabeth? Noble’s Elizabeth? But if she…and if he…he engaged you all…”
It didn’t make sense; even she, half-witted as she was from a night spent in Noble’s arms, could see that.
“My understanding is that you wish to know your husband’s favorite…ah…” Madelyn paused and sent a glance toward the enraptured Charlotte.
“Oh, you can say it in front of her,” Gillian said with a sigh. “She’s blackmailed me into giving her all of the pertinent details. I daresay by now she knows more than all of us combined.”
“To be forewarned is to be small-armed,” Charlotte said sagely. “Yes, do go on, Madelyn. We’re yearning to know.”
The drive to his house was a hellish nightmare. The streets seemed to close up before him, filled with reckless fools who did not know how to handle a coach and four, overturned carts, dogs leaping out and startling the horses, small children dashing hither and yon wherever Noble looked, and any number of other delays that stayed him from the side of his family, where he was most desperately needed.
He had deployed the three Runners in strategic spots around his house, each with a particular assignment, but upon reading the words now etched indelibly on his mind, he began to think three men were not enough.
Hell, a small army wouldn’t be enough to protect his beloved Gillian. He thought of how she’d looked that morning when he managed to drag himself from his bed — on her back, her hair cascading a fiery path over the white linens, a rosy glow to her cheeks and a smile on her face as she slept the sleep of the well-loved.
He made a mental note to have his man purchase more of the Oils of Araby before considering again the problem of that murdering bastard McGregor. Could Harry be right in his suggestion that the real culprit might be someone other than the Scot? And if so, who? Who hated him enough to try to destroy first his marriage and now Gillian?
Gillian. Just as soon as he made sure she was in good health, he would take her upstairs and introduce her to more of the items on his list. For her security, of course, not for his own base pleasure — if he kept her so exhausted that she was unable to leave his bed, he’d have little worry that McGregor or any other murdering bastard could make good his threat and kill her. It was, after all, his duty to keep her safe, and if this was the only way he could do so…he grinned to himself as he acknowledged that the merits of such a plan were almost unlimited.
“Lord Weston!”
Noble frowned at the footman blocking the door. His door, by God. “Yes, it’s Lord Weston, and he’d like to enter his house. Stand aside, Charles.”
“But, my lord — we thought you were out for the day.”
“Well, now I’m home. Is Lady Weston in?”
Charles blanched and stepped back when Noble pushed past him. Tremayne wandered into the hall, saw the earl, gawked for a moment, and, with a stammered excuse, spun around and dashed for the green baize door.
Noble frowned. What the devil had bit his servants?
“Lady Weston?” Noble reminded the pale Charles as he stripped off his hat and gloves.
“Er…Lady Weston?”
“Yes. Where is she?”
Charles swallowed twice and continued to stare at Noble with a chalky face.
“Are you ill, man?”
“No, my lord.”
“Excellent. Then you can tell me whether my wife is at home.”
“Ah…”
“Yer Lordship! Yer ’ome early!” Crouch shot through the door leading to the servant’s domain so quickly he was forced to grab Noble as he skidded to a halt on the well-polished parquet floor. “Eh, sorry about that, m’lord. I’ll ’ave one of the maids sew that up.”
Noble glared at the small hole in his sleeve where Crouch’s hook had snagged itself. “Where is my wife?”
“Yer wife?” Crouch looked confused. “What wife would that be, m’lord?”
“The same wife who you have, for the past week, been dancing attendance upon. Where is she? Has she gone out?’
“Well, now, that’s a right good question, m’lord.”
Noble started toward the staircase. “Is she in the drawing room? Her bedchamber? Her sitting room?”
Charles made a choking sound and fell over backward in a dead faint.
“Fellow’s ill; see to him, Crouch.”
“Aye, m’lord, I’ll do that. Eh — wouldn’t yer lordship prefer sittin’ in yer library while I find yer lady for ye?”