The dining room was aggressively bright.
Duke Rowan Hamilton sat at the head of the polished table, nursing a headache that felt like a blacksmith was hammering a horseshoe directly behind his left eye. He squinted at the silver coffee pot. Even the reflection on the sterling seemed loud.
He pulled his watch from his waistcoat.
Click. He opened it.
Twelve-thirty-one.
"She is late," Rowan muttered to the empty room. "One minute late. I can fire her for that. Breach of contract. Lateness. Insolence."
He felt a surge of triumph. He reached for his knife to poke his sausages.
The door opened.
Delaney Kingsley walked in. She did not tiptoe. She did not hesitate. She marched in with an efficient stride of someone with years of experience in the business. She wore the same gray dress, her hair pulled back so tightly it surely restricted blood flow to her brain. In one hand, she held her battered leather bag. In the other, a thick, threatening notebook.
