LITMIR.BIZ

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to the note. “Danielle wrote to me again and again, but I never…I never opened any of her letters. I was so sure, so certain of what I had seen.”

      “Considering how well the events of that night had been planned, that is understandable, Your Grace.”

      Rafe clamped down on his jaw so hard an ache throbbed in the back of his neck. He shoved back his chair and stood up. “Where is he?”

      McPhee stood up, as well. “Lord Oliver is currently in residence at the town house of his father, Lord Caverly. He is in London for the season.”

      Rafe rounded the desk, his pulse racing, his anger building moment by moment. He bit down hard on his temper.

      “Thank you, Jonas. You’ve done your usual fine job of uncovering the facts. I’m only sorry I didn’t know you five years ago. Perhaps if I had hired you back then, my life would have turned out far differently.”

      “I am sorry, Your Grace.”

      “No one could be sorrier than I.” Rafe walked McPhee to the door of his study. “Have your bill sent to my accountant.”

      McPhee simply nodded. “Perhaps it is not too late to mend the damage, Your Grace.”

      A fresh jolt of anger tore through him, his rage becoming so strong he feared it would spin out of control. “Five years is a very long time,” he said with deadly menace. “But of one thing you may be certain—it will soon be too late for Oliver Randall.”

      The knock came early on Oliver’s door. At the firm, insistent pounding, he dragged himself from sleep, silently cursing whoever roused him at such an ungodly hour. He was surprised when his valet walked in, a terrified look on his face.

      “What is it, Burgess? And whatever it is, it had better be important. I was sleeping like a babe until you started banging on the door.”

      “There are three men downstairs, my lord. They insist on seeing you. Jennings told them it was too early for callers. He tried to turn them away, but they refused to leave. They said the matter could not wait. Jennings came to me and asked that I awaken you.” The small, black-haired valet held up a green silk dressing gown for Oliver to put on.

      “Don’t be an idiot. I can hardly speak to them in that. I’ll have to dress. Whoever it is will simply have to wait.”

      “The men said if you don’t come down in the next five minutes, they are going to come up and get you.”

      “What? They dare to threaten me? What matter could be of such import these men have arrived at my home at such an indecent hour demanding to see me? Did Jennings give you their names?”

      “Yes, my lord. The Duke of Sheffield, the Marquess of Belford, and the Earl of Brant.”

      A shiver of alarm went through him. Sheffield was here. And with him two of London’s most powerful men. The reason for their visit didn’t bear thinking about. Better to wait and see.

      Burgess held out the robe again and this time Oliver stuck his arm through the sleeve. “Well, get down there and tell them I am on my way. Show them into the drawing room.”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      They were there waiting when the butler pulled open the tall double doors and Oliver walked in, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while wearing his dressing gown and slippers. It unnerved him a good bit more to see that the three men were standing, not sitting, as he walked into the drawing room.

      “Good morning, Your Grace, my lords.”

      “Ollie,” the duke said, an unmistakable edge to his voice.

      “I assume your business is a matter of some urgency, since you have appeared on my doorstep at such a disreputable hour.”

      Sheffield stepped forward. Oliver hadn’t seen Rafael Saunders in years, had made it a point, in fact, to keep his distance. Now he was here in his house, a man several inches taller and more powerfully built. A handsome man of wealth and power beyond anything Oliver would ever know.

      “I’ve come in regard to a personal matter,” the duke said. “A matter that should have been resolved five years ago. I believe you know to which matter I refer.”

      Oliver frowned. None of this was making any sense. “I thought what happened was all in the past. Surely you are not here to resurrect old infamies, not after all of these years.”

      “Actually, I am here to defend Danielle Duval’s honor, as I should have done five years ago. You see, I made the mistake of believing you and not her. It is a mistake I mean to rectify—once and for all.”

      “W-what are you talking about?”

      Instead of answering, Rafe pulled a white cotton glove out of the inside pocket of his morning coat. He slapped the glove hard across Oliver’s cheeks, first one and then the other. “Danielle Duval was innocent of any wrongdoing the night I found the two of you together, but you, sir, were not. Now you will pay for the damage you’ve done and the lives you have ruined. You have the choice of weapons.”

      “I don’t…I don’t know what you are talking about.”

      “Actually, you do. As you are the one who forged the note I received and paid the footman, Willard Coote, to see it delivered, you know exactly what I mean. I’ll expect you to meet me tomorrow at dawn on the knoll at Green Park. These men will act as my seconds. If you refuse, as you did before, I will find you and shoot you where you stand. Now choose your weapon.”

      So…the truth had finally come out. Oliver had begun to believe it never would, begun to think he had won the game completely. Now, five years later, he wondered if the price he would pay for the revenge he had attained would be worth it.

      “Pistols,” he said finally. “You may count on my arrival at Green Park at dawn.”

      “One last question…Ollie. Why did you do it? What did I do to you to deserve such a cruel form of punishment?”

      A corner of Oliver’s mouth twisted up. “You were simply you, Rafael. From the time we were children, you were taller and smarter and better looking. You were heir to a dukedom that included a fabulous fortune. You were a better athlete, a more charming guest, a better lover. Every woman wanted to marry you. When Danielle fell under your spell, I was determined you would never have her.” His smile turned harsh. “And so I destroyed any chance for you to have the one thing you truly wanted.”

      The duke exploded, grabbing the lapels of Oliver’s robe and hauling him up on his toes. “I’m going to kill you, Oliver. You may have accomplished what you set out to, but you are going to pay for what you have done.”

      Both the earl and marquess rushed forward.

      “Let him go, Rafael,” Brant said, his golden eyes burning into the cold blue eyes that belonged to his friend. “You’ll have your vengeance in the morning.”

      “Give him time to ponder his fate,” said the black-haired Marquess of Belford, as if he knew the sort of fear time could breed.

      The strong fingers squeezing his robe together beneath his chin slowly loosened.

      “Time to go,” Belford said to the duke. “By now the servants have probably called a watchman. As Cord says, tomorrow is another day.”

      Sheffield released him, shoving him away so hard he crashed into the mantel on the fireplace, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. But Oliver’s fear was slowly fading, replaced by an iron resolve. He had prepared himself for this day. Perhaps fate had given him a final chance to win the game.

      “We’ll see who winds up dead,” Oliver taunted as the three men started for the door. “I’m not the same weak man I was five years ago.”

      The men ignored him, just continued out of the drawing room, Belford limping slightly, an old wound perhaps. Oliver wasn’t acquainted with him well enough to know.

      The

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