“I have a letter from my wife—” Simon thrust his hand into his pocket, but—damn it—didn’t come up with the paper. “Well, I have a letter from her somewhere,” he grumbled. “And it specifically states that she has removed herself to London.” “And she has, your grace.” “Then where the hell is she?” Simon ground out. The butler merely raised a brow. “At Hastings House, your grace.” Simon clamped his mouth shut. There was little more humiliating than being bested by a butler. “After all,” the butler continued, clearly enjoying himself now, “she is married to you, is she not?” Simon glared at him.
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