Chapter 3
Chapter Three
W eekly Hyde Park walks always conjured some game. Today, Isabella and her sisters counted. Samuel walked ahead of the twins, Felicity, Gertrude, and June, a lady strolling on either side of him, and Isabella kept meticulous count of how many times Miss Haws flicked her left hand toward Samuel’s hip, arm, and leg, almost but not quite touching him, pulling back at the vital moment.
“You’re wrong,” Imogen said. She was Isabella’s mirror image—yellow curls and blue eyes, small of stature and, they’d been told, elfin of appearance. The major difference between them, according to others, was the steady blaze of seriousness in Imogen’s eyes and the spark of mischief in Isabella’s. Imogen was indeed serious at the moment, studying the sliver of space between their brother and the lady who very much wanted him to court her. “She’ll not do it again. She’s already attempted to touch him ten times. Ten . That’s an astronomical amount. She won’t be so silly as to try again. What happens if she does touch him?”
Felicity shivered. “Awkwardness. Can you imagine? Accidentally brushing against a gentleman you hold a tendre for? How humiliating.” Felicity was four years younger than Isabella and Imogen, but at one and twenty, she remained unwed, thanks to their mother, who’d demanded her daughters choose husbands for themselves. Felicity resembled their brother the duke, and their youngest sisters, her dark hair sleek and heavy and her eyes gray as a stormy sky.
“You clearly hold no tendre for any gentleman,” Imogen said, “or you’d not say that. It would not be awkward unless… unless he did not care for you.” Her face flushed crimson. Like she was embarrassed, like she knew … but how? What was Imogen not telling her?
Isabella’s ribs cinched her chest like ill-fitting stays. Did Imogen know something she did not? She opened her mouth to ask, but a flash of movement silenced her.
“Look!” Isabella hissed. “There! Miss Haws has done it again. Ha. I win.”
“Not yet,” Imogen grumbled. “We clearly haven’t found her upper limit. Let’s take another bet. I say she goes no further than fifteen attempts.”
Isabella snorted. “You do not wish to pay your debt, that is all. And it is unsportsmanlike. I say she tries at least thirty times. The entire walk without stop.”
Miss Haws, tall and slender with bouncy brown curls, already reached toward Samuel again. Isabella could taste victory.
“Thirty!” Imogen’s and Felicity’s combined cries caught the attention of June and Gertrude, who were strolling closer to Samuel but to the side of the group. They cast curious glances over their shoulders.
So too did Samuel. So too did the two ladies bracketing him.
Imogen and Isabella waggled their fingers at him, offering bright smiles.
He scowled and once more gave his attention to Lady Margaret, a short, pretty, plump blonde with a sweet smile.
“Do you think he notices?” Felicity asked. “Her attempts to brush against him?”
“Samuel notices most everything,” Imogen said. The most in that sentence being the important bit. He was thankfully unaware of Isabella’s activities, of the sisters’ reading materials, and of various other rather risky enterprises they’d participated in during the last several years. “Would you do it? Try to touch a man like that? ”
Felicity squirmed. “Absolutely not. I’m still having difficulty wrapping my mind around”—she lowered her voice and leaned in close—“how many different ways there are to touch a man. It’s all rather unnerving.”
Unlike other unmarried ladies of the ton , the Merriweather sisters knew all those ways, unnerving or not. After their mother’s death, they’d discovered her library of erotic books. They’d also discovered she’d loaned them out to a select group of ladies among the ton . And they’d discovered they enjoyed loaning out, and reading, the books themselves. They’d passed the task off to a good friend, Viscountess Norton, several years ago, but they still remained active participants in the scheme.
“I do not find it unnerving,” Isabella said, “but I would not play Miss Haws’s game, either. The gentleman must make the first advance.”
“But a gentleman cannot,” Imogen said. “Only a rogue will try his luck with a lady.”
“Then let a rogue find me if a gentleman will not try his luck. I wish to be chased.”
Imogen snorted. “This is why you’re on the shelf. You ask too much.”
“And you do not possess a sturdy, dusty shelf yourself, Sister? We were given choice, and that allows us to take our time. No matter how dusty we get.” At least they would be dusty together. She smiled.
“I may be closer than you think to diving off the shelf.”
Isabella’s smile slipped. She grasped her twin’s wrist, her stomach tying a knot that shot into her throat. “Are you keeping secrets?”
“I’m not,” Felicity said. “I would very much like the Earl of Bransley to set his cap for me.” Her brows pulled together. “He seems unlikely to do so.”
Isabella whipped in front of her sisters, pressing her palms out. “What is this? The both of you? Infatuated?” Her heart thumped in her ears. This was good. This was the natural order of things for women. Her sisters were merely following the desires of their bodies toward an end that would hopefully benefit their hearts as well.
But Isabella… Isabella had no one. Had never met a man who ro used her curiosity or those parts more southern the books spoke of. Even though her silly little dreams kept her hopes high.
Princes must exist among men, and one day one would find her. And one day, she would have the love her parents had shared.
Felicity stopped, biting her lip, nodding.
But Imogen smoothly strode around Isabella to keep up with the others. “Perhaps I am infatuated.” If Imogen took it into her head to fall in love, she would. Efficiently and with every ounce of her being committed to the goal.
Felicity and Isabella rushed after her, demanding to know who, and Imogen seemed about to tell them. Really, how could her twin have kept this from her? Isabella told her everything. Every little thought that flitted through her brain, if she had a stuffy nose, if she missed Lottie, when she dreamed of Mother and Father, that time she’d tried pantaloons and one had fallen off as soon as she’d stepped out the front door.
She told Imogen everything because she understood the importance of knowing every detail. Every strand must be tightly held to keep the world from falling apart.
“Please,” Isabella said. “Who is it?”
Imogen stepped between Isabella and Felicity and draped her arms about their waists, pulling them closer together as they stepped back into a stroll behind their brother. “It is less of a passion and more of a plan. I am not infatuated, but—”
A cry filled the park air, breaking the sisters apart. Ahead of them, Miss Haws spiraled through the air toward the ground, her skirts flying above her knees. And just before she crashed, she was saved. Diving, reaching out, tucking one arm around her hips, Samuel caught her, heaved her upward. She dangled like a reticule from his arm until their brother set her on her feet. Oh dear, his eyebrows promised thunder. And lightning. And perhaps a flood. Miss Haws did not appear capable of reading the weather. She threw herself at him, clutching and crying.
“Thank you, oh, thank you , Your Grace.”
Behind Samuel, Lady Margaret now scowled, a tiny thing, barely noticeable except by another woman used to showing the smallest amount of acceptable public emotion. But feeling much more inside. Beneath the hem of her skirt, her toe tapped. Not pleased, clearly, with Miss Haws’s theatrics.
Samuel was not pleased, either. He stoutly set Miss Haws away from him and smoothed his jacket, his waistcoat, his cravat in gestures that appeared more to wipe away the remains of Miss Haws than temper possible wrinkles. “Are you injured?”
“Not at all,” Miss Haws said, “because of you.”
Lady Margaret pursed her lips, and Samuel gave Miss Haws a curt nod before saying, with absolutely no hint of emotion, “Shall I return you both to your mothers?” He faced the way they’d just come, and like recently reprimanded children, his ladies followed. When passing through his crowd of sisters, he offered only a look that said, Do not laugh .
They would not. Now. But later, alone in their rooms, they’d share a bottle of wine, relive the moment, and make the ceilings shake. Felicity and Imogen gathered June and Gertrude and set off after their brother, but Isabella hung back.
She waved her sisters away. “I just remembered I promised Prudence I’d visit her at the print shop. Tell Samuel, if he asks, that I ran into Andromeda at the park and decided to walk with her a bit.”
Imogen raised an eyebrow. “Very well. Be safe, please.”
Isabella nodded and watched them until they disappeared. Then she set out for Conduit Street. A quarter hour walk brought her to Hotel Hestia, where the Mr. Haws and his daughter kept rooms for the Season. She was taking a risk; she did not wear her maid’s uniform, after all. But after Miss Haws’s performance in the park, Isabella needed more information. Samuel still gave the woman attention, and that meant he’d not yet made up his mind. If she could find something concrete against Miss Haws, she could slip it into Samuel’s ear. Then Lady Margaret would be his choice. And a much more sensible one, too.
There would be extra green gowns and aprons in the washroom. Maids were not allowed near guests in anything other than spotless attire. She waited until the room was all but empty, then she ducked in, grabbed the nearest gown, apron, and cap off the drying line, and bolted. She had to change behind a screen in an empty parlor, quickly, messily, but soon she pushed wayward strands of hair into the simple coil at her neck, shoved a too-big lace cap onto her head, and stepped into the hallway.
She headed for the kitchen—the best place to find out where the guests were and what they needed. As always, the kitchen was an explosion of sound and smell. Her belly rumbled, and she fought to keep her face from breaking into a smile. Keeping her face down, she listened as she made her way around the perimeter of the room. Ah—there, the name Haws tossed into the air as if of no importance. She sidled over to the maid who’d thrown it.
“Says she wants her toast less toasted,” the maid said with a sniff, holding up a triangle of bread. “But look! It’s barely cooked! If I ask Cook to toast it any less, she’ll toss me out the window.”
“I can help,” Isabella said, keeping her voice low. “I’ll take this same one to her. She’ll never know. And if she does, you won’t get in trouble for it. I will.”
The two maids stared at her, then as if of one mind, their gazes darted toward the stairs where the head housekeeper Mrs. Smith stood, queen of the domestic domain. Something was off. The maids never wavered. They handed over their unwanted tasks without hesitation.
Isabella backed away from them. She hid her face behind a palm and headed for the back door. The entire room had gone quiet. Even the boiling water and the sizzling foods—all of it seemed to pause. The only sound was footsteps, easy and unhindered behind Isabella. Pressing her feet more quickly against the floor, she didn’t dare look back. She would stop for nothing.
Except for the hand on her shoulder, strong and insistent.
She’d been caught. She was ready. She’d always been ready, and her story, her excuse for being here, settled calmly on her tongue, ready for use.
“Miss…” Mrs. Smith gently nudged Isabella’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I do not know your name. Apologies.”
Isabella dropped a deep curtsy. “Miss Crewe. I—”
“Look at me, please. And remove your cap.”
Hands shaking, Isabella did so. All over. Her long, clever scheme finally ended. How would she come by information to help Samuel now?
Mrs. Smith lifted Isabella’s chin, examining her hair, her face, her figure. “I believe you’re her. Fascinating. Mr. Trent would like to see you.”
“Mr. Trent?” The name a hiccup. “Who is that?”
“The Hestia’s owner.” Mrs. Smith headed for the stairs. “Follow me.”
Isabella had no choice. She followed, parting the throng of whispering staff.
“I heard he’s part wolf. Never speaks. Only barks and howls.”
“No. That’s not it. He’s a Frenchman. And he plans to turn the Hestia into a gambling hell.”
“I heard he’s so tall he has to duck to go through doors.”
“I know that’s true. I’ve seen him.”
“They say his you-know-what is as big as my arm.”
“No!”
No was right. Absurd proportions. Isabella would have corrected the maids, but Mrs. Smith led her upward. They climbed into the dark all the way to the top floor and emerged into a darker hallway, lit only by a few candles. Not a bit of natural light anywhere. No windows, no sun. The man who resided here would clearly be comfortable in the very depths of hell.
Who was he? Wolf? Frenchman? Absurdly large? She shivered. Why did she know nothing about him? As often as she’d haunted these halls, she should have heard some tiny whisper of truth.
Another shiver. Curse not knowing. The unknown worse than any other possibility the maids could imagine.
Mrs. Smith knocked on the first door to her right. “Mr. Trent, I’ve found her.”
Heaven and Hell, she was to be sacrificed. No, no. She would be lectured and tossed out onto the street. She could survive that.
But the door… Why did it appear so ominous? Made of some dark wood, almost black, it seemed to soak up the fragile candlelight flickering along the walls. A dark maw. If it opened, there’d be teeth.
Isabella shook her head. No. Imogen would conjure such shadows out of her spider’s web of an imagination, but Isabella would not. Isabella lived in the real world, knew sunlight banished shadows and always revealed a monster to be a coatrack. Knew true information would present an entirely rational understanding.
But that door…
A candle to her left flickered out. Another corner of the hallway surrendered to darkness.
“Come in,” a deep voice rumbled from beyond. A voice like chocolate, rich and sweet. Yet gruff as well, as if unused. Couldn’t pour sunshine on that voice, melt it into something that made sense.
No matter. Once she knew the truth of the man, she would know how to handle him. Besides, she didn’t need to brighten that midnight voice. She needed to survive its tongue lashing.
Mrs. Smith opened that gate to hell, ushered her in, then stepped back into the hallway, leaving Isabella alone with the devil himself.
This room as dark as the hallway. Only a single candle on the desk against the very back wall, and a low fire in the grate illuminated the objects of the room. There were outlines, shadows, just like the hulking man sitting behind the desk. She could not see him.
She felt him. He was a tingle up her spine, an itch in her belly, the rapid pulse at her wrist. His shadowed form spoke of bulk—broad shoulders, tall, a frame to swallow all the meager light of the room. She took a step forward, peering into the darkness.
“Mr. Trent?”
The shadow roused and rumbled, then—a tapping sound. In the small circle of light cast by the candle on his desk, a large hand moved, a finger lifted and dropped. Such control and precision in the sinewy digit. The blunt fingernail hitting the wood like a shot in the night.
She did not flinch. She did not blink. “Sir?”
“Step closer to the fire.”
She did. Not even thinking. He’d given an order, and her body simply… obeyed.
Slowly, the shadow lengthened, the hand disappeared from the halo of light as he rose higher and higher, his bulk stepping out from behind the desk, sweeping along the wall to the very edge of the shadows nearest the fireplace .
She saw him better now. Slightly. He wore no jacket, and the stark white of his shirt sleeves and cravat seemed to glow in the dark.
“Yes,” he said, his voice another rumble, another shiver up her spine, “you’re the right one.”
What did that mean? “The right one for… what, sir?”
“What is your name?”
“Miss Sarah Crewe.” No need to give him the real one, even if he did know her to be a fake.
“Sarah.” Something that sounded like a grunt. Or had it been a laugh? “Doesn’t suit you. I suppose that hardly matters, though.”
“A-and why not?” And here was where he told her everything he knew—her name, her age, her highest aspirations and darkest desires. A devil like him would know. Would he make her pay for poaching gossip on his land? Of course he would. But how?
The toe of his boot appeared out of the shadows, then the rest of him followed—long legs and thick, muscled thighs encased in dark trousers that cinched around a hard, narrow waist. His waistcoat well fitted over a broad chest. And those shoulders. He’d crossed his arms over his chest, so the linen that encased him strained. He wore no jacket, the rogue, and she could not imagine him fitting into that garment, no matter how well tailored. Too broad, too big. Not bigger than a doorway, but no wolf, either. He spoke in neither howls nor barks but in those chocolate tones she wanted to sip on.
She wanted, as well, to touch those shoulders, measure their width. She wanted to… sit on them? No, that was odd. Odder still, the desire to see them, the skin of them rolling over what must be well-honed muscle. She had a sprinkling of freckles across her shoulders. Did he? Or a mole perhaps on the wing of his shoulder blade. Or…
Oh, what had she been thinking? All thought dissipated like fog on a sunny day when she caught sight of the countenance above the perfection of his snowy cravat.
A face like marble, carved to make women lose their wits. Every bit of him below his slicked-back black hair, sharp and beautiful, from the strong chin and chiseled jaw to his high cheekbones and wide eyes. Green. They flashed in the fire, held her mesmerized. Only the gentle, raised curve of a scar around the outside of one eye softened him, as if whatever experience was stamped upon his face had tried its best to smooth out his hard edges. It had failed. The myth of the mysterious man burned away in the potent, masculine reality of him.
Andromeda had a curse she liked to apply to impossibly frustrating situations, and it alone bounced on Isabella’s tongue.
Hell and chaos . Quite.
The devil stepped forward, his expression unreadable, the corner of his firm lips quirking up, just a bit. “Your true name does not matter, Miss Crew, because where we’re going, you only need call yourself Mrs. Trent.”