Chapter 3
3
Penny could not believe her luck. Mrs Harding was dealing with a monumental disaster. The beef delivered for the marquess’ first evening meal in his London residence was spoiled.
Mrs Harding announced in her most imperious tone, ‘I must visit the butcher immediately to ensure fresh meat is delivered. It is my own fault for stupidly believing a cook might be capable of doing more than chopping onions.’
Mrs Harding informed her nemesis, Sally O’Brian, that she was about as useless as a bit of lace on a battlefield. The ensuing row between housekeeper and cook was as entertaining as it was fearsome, concluding with Mrs Harding storming out to see the butcher while Mrs O’Brian refused to cook another meal for the ‘pompous-faced arse of a housekeeper.’
‘Let the old witch starve on burned toast and salted fish,’ Mrs O’Brian huffed as Penny poured the woman a restorative cup of tea.
‘I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it, Mrs O’Brian. You’re such a talented chef. The best I’ve ever worked with, I swear it.’ It didn’t hurt to have one of the below-stairs generals on Penny’s side. Mrs Harding was a lost cause. Mrs O’Brian was the next logical choice. The butler, Mr Coggins, was completely out of the question. He hated her.
‘That’s kind of you to say, love. Fetch me one of those scones, and take one for yerself, there’s a dear.’ Mrs O’Brian’s apple cheeks lifted in a smile as Penny did as she was told. ‘Now, off with you and do your work. I don’t need that hateful woman to come back and accuse me of distracting her staff.’
Penny nodded, tucking the scone in her pocket and rushing for the servants’ stairs. With Mrs Harding out for at least an hour, the marquess still abed after his early-morning arrival, and all the servants bustling about, ensuring the house was at its best when the marquess finally did descend, Penny had a window of opportunity she was determined to exploit.
The most obvious place to search for evidence would be the marquess’ private rooms, but as he was currently using them, it seemed unwise. Later, then. Instead, Penny turned her steps toward her second option. His study. She had been itching to explore the room but thus far, her efforts had been limited to polishing the wood with lemon oil and beeswax while Mr Coggins kept his sharp gaze on her, presumably ensuring she didn’t steal the silver inkwell, or ruin the leather on Lord Renquist’s massive chair.
Coggins gave Penny a twitch in her eye. He didn’t move like a butler. Every other head of household she knew walked with a stiff, ramrod straight spine. Clipping steps. Dour voice. Coggins slithered silently over the floor, his tone was harsh, his eyes shrewd. He reminded Penny of the cutpurses she met in prison. He was a right devil and would make the perfect husband for Mrs Harding. Two sour grapes creating a cup of vinegar between them.
Penny smiled to herself. The vigilant Coggins was overseeing the dining room in Mrs Harding’s absence this morning. He wouldn’t have time to check on Penny.
‘This is my chance,’ she whispered, slipping into the masculine study reeking of Lord Renquist’s wild scent. How did one capture the essence of wood, wind, and freedom, then place that fragrance in a bottle?
Wizardry . The bastard must be friends with druids. It’s the only possible answer.
Penny glanced around the room, searching for the best place to start her investigation. The walls were papered in dark blue with geometric diamond patterns in silver. The desk, bookshelves, and a sideboard holding crystal decanters full of expensive whiskey, rare port, and French brandy, were all made from stained mahogany. The carpet was thick and soft under her feet. Penny was intimately acquainted with the details of this room. She’d spent hours rubbing the wood into a gleam, polishing the crystal until it sparkled, and staring at the drawers in Lord Renquist’s desk with the same intensity some women might employ while staring at their lovers. Secrets were hidden in those drawers. Confessions waiting to be discovered. And she would be the one to discover them.
A large leather settee sat ten feet from the marquess’ desk. Two wingback chairs in midnight-blue upholstery, darker than the walls, stood sentinel on either side of the settee with a low coffee table in the centre. A fireplace was at the far end of the room, already set with coal to be lit before the marquess arrived. But it wasn’t burning yet, which gave Penny important clues about Lord Renquist’s activities this morning. Penny exhaled a breath. He must not be planning to work in his study until later in the day or Coggins would have been sure to inform her the fire must be lit. She needn’t worry about interruption.
Rushing past the seating area, she made a beeline for the marquess’ desk. Pulling a hairpin from her neat chignon, she bent the metal at an angle and deftly inserted it into the lock on the desk’s largest drawer. Prison could teach a girl so many useful tricks. Lockpicking had been a favourite pastime of hers during hours spent in a solitary cell. In Penny’s experience, one didn’t lock a door, box, or drawer unless something precious lay within.
‘What treasures are you hiding, Lord Renquist?’ She fiddled with the lock, listened for the tumblers, and felt the catch and pull of complex metal workings within. A satisfying click alerted her to success, and she carefully opened the drawer.
Stacks of papers sat neatly within, all littered with senseless symbols. Penny picked up the top leaf of parchment, hating her illiteracy.
A world of knowledge is right in front of me and I’m too stupid to decipher it.
She bit her cheek and squinted at the letters on the page. They might as well be Sanskrit for all she could determine. One more way her inferiority kept her apart from the wealthy men and women of London.
Education, income, social clout… all things denied to a silly servant girl from the gutters.
But she wasn’t silly. And while she might not have a formal education, she knew things no pampered princess of the beau monde would learn painting plates and needlepointing cushions. She pushed the frustration away. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t decipher the words scattered over the pages like flecks of soot. She didn’t need to be able to read the letters. She just needed to find the right seal. Flipping each page over, she looked for a distinct pattern. The head of a crow, the body of a wolf, and the tail of a snake. The seal of the Devil’s Sons. Constable Sweet needed those letters, and by God, she was going to find them.
Penny diligently sorted through all the papers, but she found nothing. Just as she was about to return them to the drawer, the wooden bottom caught her eye. Crouching on the ground to better determine the dimensions of the drawer, it became clear to her the base was too shallow. She tapped the wood, and a hollow sound confirmed her suspicions. The drawer held a false bottom.
Exactly what might a marquess keep in his secret drawer?
Penny was going to find out.
A few more minutes of fiddling and she was able to pop the thin piece of wood free.
Huzzah!
Excitement and anticipation coursed through Penny, making her fingers tingle and her breath come fast. She lifted the wood free and found… more letters.
Damn! But why would he hide these letters?
Picking up the top letter with a shaking hand, she it flipped over.
Dark-red wax had been pressed into a distinct image easily discernible despite the broken seal.
The head of a crow, the body of a wolf, and the tail of a snake.
The seal of the Devil’s Sons. Pressed onto a letter undoubtably written by the Marquess of Stoneway.
She had him.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Coggins!
With efficiency born of desperation, Penny quickly tucked the letter into her apron. She would need to return for the rest when she had more time and bigger pockets. Replacing the false bottom, she neatly restacked the first set of papers, shut the drawer, and stood, rushing to the fireplace.
Almost dropping the tinder box as she snatched it from the mantle, Penny opened it and pulled out the flint and steel. Gripping the implements tight, she willed her hands to stop shaking.
I am not some stupid ninny! Coggins doesn’t scare me… much.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t Coggins storming in, wondering why she tarried so long in the study when it had been dusted, polished, and set to rights the day before. It wasn’t Coggins determined to give her a set-down or take a switch to her palms for daring to light the fire without his explicit instructions.
It wasn’t Coggins, because it was much, much worse.
‘Why is it every time I enter a room expecting it to be empty, there you are?’ The dark, rumbling voice unsettled Penny in alarming ways. She stiffened her spine; the letter in her pocket which moments before brought her such joy suddenly weighed more than iron.
What if he knows?
But that was impossible. She was being ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly guess at her activities.
Still, what in the bloody hell was the Marquess of Stoneway doing up so early after such an arduous journey? He should be snoring away in his feather-padded bed, dreaming of diamond-crusted courtesans, champagne rivers, crushing the poor beneath his boots like walnut shells, or whatever other tripe rich people envisaged in their nocturnal wonderings. Not invading her moment of triumph with his impossibly potent presence.
Penny had been shocked the night before when the very man she plotted against materialised in the kitchen. A place no marquess belonged. Especially not one as large and dominating as the Marquess of Stoneway. She was equally surprised at how objectively attractive he was.
The image she’d conjured in her mind of what he would look like – a portly, red-cheeked, overly pampered fop – fell drastically short of the thick-limbed, well-muscled, travel-dishevelled man looming larger than life in her domain. But it was more than his distinctive features. It was the darkness he wrapped around himself like a cloak. The danger pulsing from him like heat from a fire. His presence was overwhelming. She had been horrified by her reaction to all his smouldering menace.
Because I found him fascinating.
Despite her determination to hate the lord, when she fell into conversation with him, some sparking, fizzing, highly alarming emotion had filled her. She almost enjoyed their repartee.
Which was entirely his fault. What kind of a marquess eats his dinner in the kitchen and makes such inappropriate suggestions to his maid? Daring me of all things!
Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, the shock of his early arrival, or the stress of her mission, but instead of maintaining her mask of demure, respectable servant, she’d let it slip and revealed the true Penny beneath. The little scrapper from the Steel.
When Penny reminded herself the marquess was not some dashing highwayman but rather the devil who kept her family trapped behind bars, her remarks had shifted from humorous banter to near insolence. Both reactions were equally inappropriate as they garnered the one thing she didn’t want. His notice. Even if his gaze did make her belly flip and her breath quicken.
Also his fault. Evil men should look the part. Disgusting, oily, ugly. Not… well, not like the Marquess of Stoneway.
His startlingly amber eyes had glowed in the lamplight of the kitchen. She hadn’t been ready to examine the complex blend of emotions he inspired within her that night, and she was no more ready now as they stood in the anaemic sunlight of the study. Never had she hated someone and equally wished to inhale his scent of wild wind and woodsmoke.
Highly unsuitable fragrances for a marquess. He should reek of Bay Rum or lavender. Talcum powder, perhaps.
But instead, he tempted her to fill her lungs with his essence and refuse to exhale. It was all very untoward and spiked a need to protect herself. Which she’d done the night before with her sharp tongue. And which she was doing again now, like some complete idiot.
And I’m enjoying it.
An even more terrifying admission. Penny had very little time in her day for simple pleasures. It was highly unfortunate the one she found was also likely to end her employ. She relished sparring with the marquess. Which was so very wrong. Because she hated him and should find no pleasure in sharp discourse. And also, he was her employer. No world existed where a maid spoke to a marquess as an equal.
Must do better today.
She lowered her gaze in deference but was distracted by his muscular thighs flexing in perfectly fitted breeches. His scuffed boots – well-worn and far too abused for a high-born lord – were impossibly large.
He must have very big feet.
And that scent! Invading her mind with thoughts of green spaces, clean air, freedom. Making her wish for things that could never be. It was maddening. The wrongness of it spiked her ire.
‘As your housemaid, it seems reasonable you would find me here. In your study. Lighting your fire, my lord. Unless you wish to work in the frigid cold, or complete the task yourself?’ She lifted her gaze and offered him the flint and steel, her eyes catching on the firm line of his jaw before briefly flitting to his sharp amber eyes flashing with some mysterious emotion as undecipherable as the letter in her pocket.
Blast. Not better at all. And now I’ve likely inspired his anger. Getting sacked will not help me complete my mission.
Yes, she had a letter. But not all of them, which is what Constable Sweet required. And the seal if she could find it. For that, she needed to maintain her employment with the Marquess of Stoneway. Therefore, she must shut her mouth and make amends. Not necessarily in that order.
Dropping her hands, she fiddled with the flint. ‘I jest, my lord. Of course. I shall finish here and leave you to your solitude.’ Not risking another glance at his annoyingly handsome face, she crouched next to the fire and struck flint against steel, hoping the tinder already stacked beneath the coal would catch the spark quickly so she could escape.
‘You don’t like me much, do you, Miss Smith?’ The marquess stepped closer, his scent surrounding Penny like an embrace blending with the lemon oil she used on the hearth.
Penny sucked in air as she struck the flint once more, relieved when the tinder smouldered, then flamed to life. She blew on it gently, coaxing the coals to take the flame and glow with their own heat. After a few moments, she stood, carefully placing the flint and steel back in the decorative box and setting it gently on the mantle so as not to scratch the wood.
She couldn’t possibly answer his question. Evasion was her best option. ‘What a curious question, my lord. Why on earth would you care one way or the other if I like you? I am your servant. My role is to meet your needs. Quietly and unobtrusively. How I feel about you, my work, the weather, or any other thing matters not a whit, nor should it.’ She kept her gaze on the mantle, refusing to look at him.
He took another step closer, his hand almost brushing her skirt. It wasn’t a rare thing for maids to suffer the unwanted attention of their employers. But Penny had avoided such situations in the past with quick reflexes and even swifter wit, ensuring escape without offence. A delicate balance.
Inexplicably, and quite infuriatingly, she found her body doing the unthinkable. Instead of creating an opportunity for flight from this most dastardly lord, she leaned in his direction.
What the bloody hell am I about?
Her thigh tingled where his hand hovered only inches away. For a mad moment, she imagined feeling the heat from his fingers seeping through her simple cotton dress and touching her buzzing skin.
‘Quiet and unobtrusive. Two adjectives I’ve yet to see you display, Miss Smith.’
Penny clenched her teeth to contain a blistering reply as his fingers flicked against her skirt.
He took her silence as an invitation to continue talking.
Of course. Pompous bastard.
Not that the arrogant blockhead needed her permission. As lord of the household, he could say whatever he damn well pleased whenever he bloody well wanted.
‘Are your thoughts less valuable because of your station, Miss Smith? Your opinions less worthy of consideration?’ The gruffness of his voice caused something secret and soft to unfurl low in her belly even as his words further stoked her anger.
Penny held her breath and tried to count to ten. She managed three.
Insufferable man and his insolent questions!
She wasn’t sure what was more infuriating. His presence, or the way his presence affected her.
‘Your question is ignorant, sir. Or perhaps intentionally unfair.’ She shouldn’t have said it. But it was true. More to the point, it perfectly highlighted the reason Penny was in her current situation. Because lords like Renquist didn’t value all humans equally. Only opinions from the wealthy were worthy. His question mocked her reality.
He rocked back on his heels. ‘Ignorant? Unfair? Surely these are unjust accusations.’
‘Hardly.’ Penny fiddled with the waistband of her apron and avoided his gaze. She tried and failed to regain a sense of inner calm. She needed to remain aloof, but it all felt so impossibly personal.
He bit his distractingly well-shaped lip. ‘Please, Miss Smith, explain yourself. I confess, you have me desperate to hear your justification for claiming I’m either a fool or wilfully cruel.’
‘You shouldn’t rule out the possibility of being both.’ The words escaped before she even knew she’d formed them.
Bloody hell. Do I want to get fired?
But the marquess instigated the worst traits within her.
Instead of becoming angry, the marquess’ lips twitched. He was amused. By Penny. She had never amused anyone. ‘How easily you judge me, Miss Smith.’
Stiffening her spine, she pulled away from him. ‘It is not my place to judge others, sir.’
‘I don’t know. You seem rather adept at it.’
The room had become insufferably warm. Her skin was flaming with something quite thrilling. The exhilaration of a fight.
‘I am adept at dusting tables, my lord. Folding linen. Polishing silver.’
He tsked, shaking his head slowly from side to side. ‘I’d wager your skills are far greater than that, Miss Smith.’
Penny was momentarily distracted by his gold-tipped lashes, highlighting the unusual hue of his eyes. She almost leaned forward again, her body drawn to him with some unseen force. But she caught herself, locking her knees. ‘My skills are no different than those of any other domestic.’
Lord Renquist’s eyes carried a dangerous magic, sparkling with untold mischief. ‘Never before has one of my domestics accused me of being cruel, ignorant, or both. I won’t let you off the hook, Miss Smith. You made the accusation, now you must defend it with evidence. Come now, you aren’t afraid, are you?’
He was baiting her. And damn it, it was working. Penny cleared her throat and clenched her hands in tight little fists. ‘Surely you must acknowledge that, as your servant, someone inferior to you in power and consequence – indeed, someone dependent upon your goodwill – there is no answer I can give about the worth of my opinions that is both true and appropriate.’
‘I’ve never cared much for propriety. I’d much rather have honesty. Give me your truth, Miss Smith. I’ll forgive your offence to decorum.’
Choking out a hoarse laugh, Penny dared to meet his brazen stare, attempting to discern his motivation. But he gave nothing away. His firm mouth pressed into a neutral line. His brows, several shades darker than his golden hair, raised in what appeared to be honest curiosity.
Fine. If candour is what he seeks, candour he shall have.
‘All right. I believe your existence is carved out of the flesh and bones of your servants, my lord. That your reality is only achievable through our efforts.’
Lord Renquist leaned closer, his face near enough for her to run her fingers over his freshly shaved jaw.
Not that I want to do that.
Thank God her hands were clenched at her side as her gaze touched the skin her fingers would never dare caress. His valet had missed a small line of whiskers on his neck. They glistened in the grey morning sunlight, and she found the imperfection perversely satisfying.
‘Can you elucidate exactly in what way my existence is carved from your flesh and bones?’ His mesmerising eyes flashed with an unspoken invitation. An invitation she would never accept.
I don’t want to accept it.
The darkness so natural to him twisted and swirled around her words repeated by his mouth. Shockingly intimate, to consume her thoughts and reissue them with such wickedly different intent. Her flesh and bones becoming a part of him. Not at all what she meant, but still a fascinating proposal.
Hardly! What an appalling idea.
But she didn’t feel appalled.
Penny shivered. This man was dangerous. To be such a blackguard and yet inspire a completely unexpected yearning within her to arch closer, like a sapling caught in a strong wind. No wonder the Devil’s Sons allowed him into their ranks. He could convince a young maid to do any manner of disastrous things.
But not me. I am the master of my own destiny.
Which wasn’t entirely true. Mastering one’s destiny required independence. And independence could only be bought with large sums of money. Money that rich swells like him took for granted and poor maids like her only imagined in their wildest daydreams.
She ignored the pounding of her heart. The sense of fight or flight he inspired within her – evidence of his intrinsic danger – emboldened her. In situations fraught with danger, Penny always chose to fight. It was her greatest flaw. She opened her mouth and let her words fly. ‘I would be happy to elucidate my thoughts.’ If he could repeat her words, she would happily retaliate. Penny squared her shoulders.
I might be illiterate, but I am not inferior to you.
She refused to back away from him, regardless of his inappropriate proximity. It would be a sign of weakness. And Penny wasn’t weak. She wouldn’t be intimidated by his bigger, stronger body. Even giants could fall with a well-placed knee to the groin, a thumb to the eye, a heel to the kneecap.
But in this situation – standing in her employer’s study, battling with the very man who ensured her livelihood – perhaps words would be more appropriate weapons than fists or feet.
No weapon is appropriate, silly Penny. For once in your life, retreat!
She ignored the voice of warning. He requested honesty. As a servant, it was her job to give her employer exactly what he asked for.
I’m going to regret this.
But it was too late. The words poured forth, ‘Without domestics, the peerage would be no better than the fishmonger selling his wares or the blacksmith swinging his anvil. Less, in fact. Most of the lords and ladies we serve lack the skills to toast bread, let alone create a meal, mend a dress, or saddle a horse. You prance around like kings in your castles, yet if the servants left, every duke, marquess, viscount or earl wouldn’t be capable of tying their own cravats. So, do I believe my thoughts are valuable? My opinions worthy of consideration? I do, sir. But I question your worthiness to consider them.’
Immediate remorse swelled like a giant wave.
Blast. I’ve done it now.
Penny pressed her lips together. Her sharp tongue would be the death of her. She’d allowed him to provoke her, and her reckless response was unforgiveable. She would lose her position and any hope of gathering the rest of the letters for Constable Sweet and the only one to blame was Penny herself.
Stupid, impetuous girl! Letting him provoke me instead of shutting my mouth and remembering my place.
She could only pray the letter she stole held enough evidence to earn the reward.
Or Mother’s fate is on my head.
She was usually so controlled. So guarded in her thoughts and words. While her anger was often stoked, she kept her face a calm mask. Yet with a few simple words, she allowed this exasperating, despicable man to dig beneath her shields and poke at the tender flesh beneath. Why did she risk so much to rise to his taunt?
Because I want to prove I’m just as worthy as he is. With all his riches and power. Better even than the man who helped destroy my childhood. And now, I’ll lose everything.
‘Well, that was certainly honest.’ The marquess’ chin tipped up as he continued to stare at Penny with those fathomless eyes.