Chapter 4

4

It was a lamentable and incredibly inconvenient fact that Liam’s housemaid was stunning. Insolent, brash, and brazen. Yes. But he had asked for her honesty. He could hardly fault her for giving it to him.

Hazel eyes flashed like a forest caught in a lightning storm. Her Cupid’s bow mouth pressed together, flattening the delectable curve of plump flesh into a determined line. A curl had escaped her cap again, brushing against a cheek flushed with passion. The vicious creature within her called to his own violent beast. He ached to wage war with her and see who emerged the victor.

Dear God. Gain control this instant.

As if either of them had the freedom to battle as equals. Impossible. Regardless of how much he might wish they could. Which was another problem. He shouldn’t be wishing anything in relation to Miss Smith.

Why must she be here ?

Best-laid plans ruined by a delectable maid.

The last thing he wanted to encounter when he walked into his study was the confounding woman who had already taken up too much space in his head. She’d stolen any chance he had of sleep the night before. As he lay in bed, restless despite his body’s fatigue, his mind had replayed their conversation in the kitchen instead of settling into peaceful slumber. He’d spent several unsettling hours tossing and turning, watching the dawn paint the black sky pink, then purple, until weak sunlight finally succumbed to gunmetal-grey clouds. It would storm later in the day. He welcomed the wild weather, wanting something to echo the turmoil within him.

As he had dressed, he thought about her acute dislike of him. Her open disdain was a puzzle he couldn’t ignore. A problem he was compelled to solve for reasons remaining opaque despite having neither time nor freedom to indulge such inappropriate desires.

Aren’t all my desires inappropriate?

A patently unhelpful observation.

Liam had thrown off his covers far too early in the morning, frustrated with his own base need for a woman dependent upon his patronage and deserving of a safe work environment free of lusty marquesses.

Unacceptable.

He descended the stairs that morning determined to focus on his new mission. He needed to review the information he’d discovered amongst his brother’s personal effects and plan his next steps to fully infiltrate the Devil’s Sons.

Step one: arrange a meeting with Reynard’s connection in the Devil’s Sons. Lord Charles Barrington. The second son of a baron and one of Reynard’s feckless friends from Eton. The idiots had been corresponding for months, and Reynard kept all of the letters.

Step two: convince the bastard to allow Liam to take his brother’s place in the fraternity. Liam had recently and very publicly purchased a large shipping company. It would be easy to outline the benefits of his membership in the Devil’s Sons by promising access to large ships willing to transport undeclared cargo.

Step three: convince the leaders of this diabolical group to sign a contract ensuring a percentage of profits would be delivered to Liam from the sale of ‘goods’ in return for use of his ships. A contract that would condemn them all, and therefore ensure equal liability.

Step four: burn the entire organisation to the ground, even if it meant crawling on the pyre himself and lighting the oil-soaked kindling with his scorching rage.

Four steps. Hardly unattainable. If I can maintain focus.

That is what mattered. Not some pixie-eyed servant girl whose scent invaded his senses, whose sharp tongue invited him to spar, whose blend of strong lines and soft curves made his fingers itch and his mouth water.

With his priorities realigned, Liam strode into his study painfully early in the grey morning with the best of intentions to begin work. And then he crashed into her .

The fates are toying with me again. Fuck the fates.

He wasn’t one to be trifled with, even by the divine. He would take a step back. Create distance. Control the urge to reach up and test the softness of her skin, just there, where freckles sprinkled across her cheekbone.

But then he’d opened his stupid mouth and issued a challenge. Which was bad. But when the contrary woman returned the gauntlet he threw, it was even worse. At the very least, for his evaporating control.

He dared her to be honest with him, and damn her warrior spirit, she reciprocated. With brutal truth.

But now she lowered her head, pulling the guise of obedient servant back on despite how ill it fit her form. ‘Forgive me, my lord.’

This was his opportunity to retreat. Accept her apology. Dismiss her from his study. Forget the whole encounter.

But I never retreat.

He let his fingers reach out and brush over the simple cotton of her uniform. A breach of propriety and unforgivably bold. He pulled back, but not before his index finger encountered a noticeable bulge in her apron pocket.

Quirking his eyebrow, suspicion dawned.

Was Miss Smith stealing from him?

Disappointment broke the spell he’d allowed to wind around them like a mist. He stepped back, his gaze falling to her apron. Yes. A definite lump.

‘What is in your pocket, Miss Smith?’ He clipped his syllables as fiercely as he clipped his desire.

The young woman’s cheeks paled, her shadowed eyes grew huge in guilt or surprise, he couldn’t determine which. She swallowed. Liam was momentarily distracted by the contraction of her delicate throat.

‘Thieving is something I will not abide in my household. Show me what is in your pocket, Miss Smith.’

She didn’t move. Frozen like a wild creature caught in an iron trap.

‘Should I reach in there myself?’ God, he wanted to do just that. Any excuse to step closer and put his hands on her, even if it was just to prove the woman was pilfering a silver candlestick, or perhaps the brass paperweight on his desk.

Miss Smith took a halting step backward. ‘I… it’s just…’ She dipped a shaking hand into her pocket and pulled out… a pastry.

Surprising relief flooded Liam before quickly being replaced with shame. Theft carried heavy consequences for a servant. Dismissal without recommendation. Whipping. Months of hard labour. Even transportation if the items were of value. She was clearly terrified of his threat, and all because she dared put a scone in her pocket.

Following in Father’s footsteps. Terrifying the staff. Fear and respect meant the same thing to him. Wouldn’t he finally be so proud of me?

Black anger rose to eclipse the shame. Anger with his dead father. Anger with himself. Liam provoked Miss Smith to speak plainly with him about the value of her thoughts and opinions, then immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.

Because she was a servant.

Because she was lowborn.

Because she didn’t like him, and while he could fathom a wealth of reasons why, he didn’t like the idea of her finding him undeserving.

And, if she were a thief, I could extinguish this ridiculous power she holds over me.

Even that was bullshit. Liam’s attraction to Miss Smith was not within her power. He was responsible for his thoughts. His actions. His feelings. Only a weak man blamed others for his own desires. His own failings.

He breathed deeply through his nose, letting the cold air clear his head.

Miss Smith rushed on with her explanation. ‘Mrs O’Brian gave me a scone.’ Crumbs from the squished treat fell onto the Aubusson rug. Her eyes flicked to her boots, now covered in fragments of her snack. ‘Oh, dear.’ Miss Smith shoved the offending delicacy back into her apron pocket and dropped to her knees to pick up the mess she’d made. Because of his accusations.

‘Leave it, Miss Smith.’ But if she didn’t pick up the crumbs now, she would just have to come back and complete the task later. It was her job, after all. To clean up after the marquess.

Liam clenched his jaw, thoroughly disgusted with himself. This was all so ridiculous.

She threw the crumbs into the fire and stood, folding her hands in front of her, hiding the pocket he found so offensive.

‘I apologise, Miss Smith. I shouldn’t have…’ Liam cursed, wishing for the right words but they didn’t come.

Miss Smith bit her beautiful lip, causing Liam’s focus to hitch. Her confusion was understandable. A marquess did not apologise to his servant. Ever. Even when he was obviously wrong.

‘You shouldn’t have what? Accused me of thieving, my lord?’ She blinked, then shrugged. Apparently, she’d recovered her aplomb more quickly than he was able to reclaim his composure. ‘Well, I accused you of being too inept to toast bread. I suppose I can forgive you your suspicions if you can forgive me my sharp tongue.’ Miss Smith seemed intent on glaring at the rug’s pattern. He desperately wished she would challenge him again with her words, her spirit, her fey eyes sparking with fire.

‘Mercy from such a fierce creature?’ He couldn’t stop himself. A desperate attempt to rouse her from the meekness expected of servants but so at odds with her innate nature.

‘More self-preservation, my lord. I shouldn’t have spoken so freely before. So, now I’ve blistered your ears and you’ve determined I have nothing in my pockets belonging to you, perhaps we can be even.’

Liam stepped forward, drawing in her scent, lifting her chin with his finger, forcing her to face him. ‘I’m not sure we’ll ever be even, Miss Smith.’ The words should have solidified his superiority, but as he fell into her unwavering gaze, he wasn’t sure who held sway in this unexpected game of wits. Something deep in his chest rumbled like the purring of a jungle cat. Such secrets swam in her eyes. Dark confessions. Would they match the depths of his own? Could the mysteries hidden in her shadows be as bleak? Was it possible to find solace in the sins of another?

Very little inspired fear in Liam. But his growing need to understand Miss Smith terrified him. To know something as unfathomable as her soul? A frightening prospect indeed.

She is not for me.

It was a refrain that bore repeating until the confounding need pulsing within him, as compelling as the drums of war and just as dangerous, finally abated. He curled his hand into a fist, let it drop to his side, and stepped back. ‘Thank you for lighting the fire, Miss Smith.’

She cleared her throat and dipped into a curtsy. ‘Of course, my lord.’ Without another word, she swept past him, leaving a trail of vanilla and cloves in her wake.

What the bloody hell is wrong with me?

Penny thanked the fates for Mrs O’Brian’s scone. It likely saved her. She made her way to her room, looking for a hiding spot for the letter currently burning a hole in her apron.

Penny shared her small bedroom with a young girl just starting her time in service. She was a laundry maid, and ever so sweet, but it wouldn’t do for young Molly to find the Devil’s Sons’ missive sitting on the small side table between their beds or hastily thrown on Penny’s pillow. Unlike Penny, Molly knew her letters and would be able to read the damning note. Not something Penny could risk.

There were precious few hidey holes in such a spare room, so Penny lifted the mattress and shoved the thing underneath. Not exactly the false bottom of a locked drawer, but it would have to do. Constable Sweet wouldn’t be checking in with Penny for another fortnight, so the letter could stay in its new hiding spot until then. Hopefully, the marquess wouldn’t notice its absence before she could rid herself of the parchment. Though if Lord Renquist did go searching, Penny doubted he would think to look under the mattress of an illiterate maid.

As she made her way through the servants’ hall to the linen cupboard to gather fresh sheets for the marquess’ bed, her thoughts were drawn irrevocably back to the study and her conversation with the troublesome man. Why did Renquist pull at her? Like the wind tangling her skirts around her legs, or a rogue wave threatening to drag her feet from beneath her. He was an evil man intent on awful deeds. She shouldn’t find such a devil attractive.

I do not find him the least attractive. He’s a despicable blackguard responsible for untold evil acts, not the least being my mother’s current imprisonment.

Penny shuddered at her own weakness. To let such a man infiltrate her numerous shields was completely unacceptable.

It’s his regard. The questions he asks. The notice he takes of me. A maid. Certainly not worthy of his time or consideration.

When she spoke with him, it was so easy to forget. Lord Renquist and men like him were the reason her childhood was full of such cruelty, and why her present circumstances were so desperate. But in their two interactions, he hadn’t treated her cruelly. Quite the opposite. While he fairly dripped of danger, he spoke to Penny as though her thoughts were valuable.

The Devil’s sin is pride, and he strokes mine so easily.

She would not be charmed by a man who kept her mother in a cell and was likely responsible for even worse crimes against innocent maids. Though it was becoming difficult to imagine Lord Renquist coercing young girls into his home only to drug them, nail them into coffins, ship them across the channel, and sell them into slavery. She had less trouble imagining him seducing young women into his private room and committing any manner of sins with them in his massive, feather-padded, silk-draped, pillow-festooned bed. A bed she would be making directly.

I will not let Renquist’s charms fool me.

Penny nodded at her own sage advice. It didn’t matter if the man’s amber eyes tempted her like warm honey. If his questions lingered like the sting of a bee. If the warmth of his hand as it almost grazed her leg made her skin hum like a buzzing hive. She would smoke him out, expose his sins, outsmart him at his own game. But first, she would make his bed, help set the dining room table for his “welcome home” feast, and serve the bastard his dinner of decidedly unspoiled beef.

As she made her way through the grand entryway on her way up the main staircase to the family wing with an armful of clean linen for his bed, a knock sounded on the door. Usually, Coggins would answer the front door, but he was still organising the dining room. Penny looked around for a footman, yet none lingered in the hall. She could hardly answer the door with an armful of sheets in her hand. Hastily thrusting them into a hall closet, she brushed her apron neatly over her skirt and made her way to the door. Opening it a crack, she peered out.

Dancing devils!

There was no mistaking the woman standing on the marble portico.

Penny took a stumbling step backward as she tried not to drown on air suddenly as thick as the Thames.

What in the bloody hell is the Duchess of Dorsett doing here?

The duchess was famous in the beau monde for her formidable presence, impressive wealth, and close connection with Queen Victoria herself. But only a small circle of people knew how dangerous she truly was. And Penny was one of those fated few.

The Duchess of Dorsett, Lady Philippa Winterbourne, filled the entryway with such presence, Penny was momentarily speechless. Resplendent in a burned-gold gown with black lace overlay, her midnight hair – streaked with silver – was piled high in a coiffure of such intricate curls and braids, Penny’s hands hurt thinking of the effort employed to create such a masterpiece. Black sapphires encircled the duchess’ neck and cascaded in a rainfall of sparks down her throat. She raised a perfectly sculpted jet brow.

A thrill of fear coursed through Penny.

Is she also investigating Lord Renquist?

The duchess was more than friends with Queen Victoria. Penny learned during her time working as a lady’s maid for Millicent Drake that Lady Winterbourne was a secret aid for the monarch, pursuing scurrilous lords and holding them accountable for their crimes. Exactly how she held them accountable was unclear to Penny, but her guess was it involved a certain amount of violence given the last lord the duchess was investigating had met a grisly end in Major General Drake’s wine cellar four months prior. The same lord Penny had been investigating. Reynard Renquist. The Marquess of Stoneway’s younger brother. And now, she was here.

Lady Winterbourne’s presence at Lord Renquist’s residence could only mean one thing. The Queen suspected the marquess of crimes against the throne. And if the duchess found evidence of his guilt before Penny, she would miss another chance to earn the reward money to save her mother.

I can’t fail again.

But how on earth could she best Lady Winterbourne? Competing against the duchess in an investigation was a doomed enterprise. Dread filled Penny as she opened the door wide. Regardless of her feelings, one did not deny entrance to the Duchess of Dorsett. ‘Your Grace, what are you… I mean to say, we weren’t expecting, that is… please do come in.’

The duchess swept past Penny. Jasmine and something more mysterious tickled Penny’s nose. Frankincense perhaps, or sandalwood.

‘Penny. Millicent mentioned you had taken a new position. I must say it is fascinating to find you here.’ Lady Winterbourne’s cobalt stare unnerved Penny, as did the duchess’ recollection of her name. She was certain the woman’s sharp gaze could cut through all of Penny’s shields, exposing her secrets, penetrating the darkest corners of her soul, dismantling her one truth at a time. A frightening prospect indeed.

Penny bowed her head as much to protect herself as to show deference to the powerful woman. ‘I’m honoured you remember me at all, Your Grace.’

Lady Winterbourne’s blood-red lips stretched into a wicked smile. ‘I don’t forget anything, Penny. I certainly remember a promise you made to me about keeping the secrets of your mistress. A promise I hope you intend to honour, regardless of your new employment.’

Her words weren’t overtly threatening, but there was certainly a promise. Of what, Penny couldn’t determine, but she had no wish to find out.

‘Of course, Your Grace. I would never betray Lady Drake’s confidence, or yours.’

The duchess’ eyes flashed as she nodded. ‘Excellent. Now, I’m here to see the marquess. Please inform him of my presence.’

Penny swallowed.

Dear God. If the duchess kills the marquess in his study, I’ll never be able to prove his guilt. And the mess I’ll have to clean up. Blood stains are so hard to remove.

An alarming sense of loss filled her at the thought of Lord Renquist bleeding from a mortal wound. Probably because it meant she wouldn’t fulfil her mission.

Yes. That’s why I want him to remain alive. So I can punish him for his crimes. Not because I want to spar with him again in a war of words and wit.

Penny didn’t believe Lady Winterbourne would actually kill anyone. At least, it seemed unlikely. Although, it wasn’t difficult to imagine the formidable duchess eliminating whatever obstacle might lay in her path, regardless of whether that obstacle happened to be a large, dangerous, self-professed low and dejected marquess.

There was also the issue of Lord Renquist’s reaction to an unexpected visitor. Even if that visitor was a duchess known to take tea with the Queen. It was a safe guess the marquess would not be enthused about entertaining Lady Winterbourne. But Penny could hardly send the duchess away now that she invited her into the entryway.

‘I don’t have all day, Penny.’ The duchess thwacked a jewel-crusted fan against her voluminous skirts.

Damnation .

She couldn’t keep dithering in the hall debating over whether the duchess was contemplating homicide. Penny straightened her posture and adopted her most respectful tone. ‘Certainly, Your Grace. If you would just follow me.’

She turned, endeavouring not to trip over her feet as she led the duchess to Lord Renquist’s most formal sitting room. She opened the door and gestured to a velvet, emerald settee. ‘I shall inform the marquess of your presence. Would you like some tea while you wait?’

‘Only if it comes with whiskey.’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’ Penny remembered how Philippa preferred her tea.

‘It’s good to see you, Penny. It would seem Millicent’s loss is Lord Renquist’s gain. Perhaps he is in more dire need of your services than she ever was.’ The duchess winked at Penny.

He needs my services about as much as he needs a visit from you. Unlucky man.

Penny stretched her lips into an artificial smile, dipped in a curtsy, and sedately exited the room. As soon as the door shut behind her, she took off in a mad sprint to the kitchen. When a crisis descended, tea – apparently doused with whiskey – and a variety of cakes were required. She would make sure Mrs O’Brian had the order correct before she informed Lord Renquist of his guest.

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