Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Kenneth stared down at the roses in his hands, then flicked his gaze up to the unassuming brick townhouse in front of him.
Roses? Red roses? In the language of flowers, they sent a powerful message.
One he wasn’t certain he could afford to send.
Over the years, he’d courted plenty of women…
but for a very specific end goal. One that didn’t require romance.
Red roses were perfectly acceptable in those cases—expected, even.
So were oysters, asparagus, truffles, and figs.
Jewelry and trinkets were yet another piece of ammunition in the battle for pleasure, a volley sent to soften the female’s resolve, along with kisses on the inside of her wrist and under her ear, and murmured phrases in Italian.
Those ten months he’d spent undercover in Italy certainly had come in handy.
Aye, Kenneth knew what he was doing in the game of seduction—ahem, courting. So not a single experience he’d had thus far could help him in this situation.
Miss Barbara Fokette wasn’t a bored Society matron, or an excitable young widow, or a ruined daughter looking for a good time. She wasn’t who he was used to courting.
She was an intelligent, witty young virgin who’d seen right through his practiced moves.
She’d mocked them—but not him—and allowed him to continue.
She hadn’t slapped his face and stormed off, hadn’t run screaming from his touch.
She’d been bright enough to know exactly what he was doing and then let him continue doing it.
Did that mean she was interested in what he could offer her?
Or was Kenneth reading too eagerly into the situation?
Either way, his normal methods couldn’t work here. He was in new territory. And that put him at a disadvantage. Not something he was accustomed to.
With a sigh, he dropped the red roses off the side of the steps. Barbara would likely prefer a rarer flower, or a scarab beetle or something.
That was the thing; she was intelligent, aye, but fascinating.
He liked Miss Barbara Fokette, liked her as a human, not just as a possible sexual partner.
From the gaming room she’d looked wan and plain, but up close he’d seen the sparkle in her blue eyes, been intrigued by the dip of her decolletage across the top of her gown, wanted to tuck the stray curl behind her ear…
She wasn’t as classically beautiful as other women he’d seduced over the years, perhaps, but he found himself looking forward to the opportunity.
Not that he had a choice. The wager with Remmy was stupid; he’d happily defer to his friend and allow him the limelight of notoriety, if it would help him and his theater.
But Barbara had become more than a wager as soon as her relationship to Standish became known.
He had to seduce her, or at least appear to.
The scandal would distract the Earl of Standish, which was exactly what the Home Office needed to continue to investigate the rumors of treason.
Kenneth told himself he wasn’t going to feel guilty about ruining the lass’s reputation; he would make certain she enjoyed the hell out of herself. Besides, if he was smart, she wouldn’t have to be entirely ruined.
Just…mildly ruined. Slightly ruined. Gently ruined.
With a bracing breath, he knocked firmly on the door and plastered a hopeful smile on his face.
A long moment went by and Kenneth didn’t hear any steps on the other side of the door.
Was he too early for visiting hours? Nay, he’d double-checked before taking a hansom cab to this quiet London street.
Finally he knocked again, louder this time, and eventually he heard something.
The sound of the knob rattling, a masculine mutter…
he assumed the butler must be quite elderly.
But to his surprise, when the door eventually did swing open, Baron Fokette himself stood there, holding a book open with one hand in front of him, the other hand on the knob.
He peered at Kenneth over the top of his reading glasses. “Yes?”
Kenneth almost burst into laughter at the eccentricity of it all. Instead, though, he schooled his features. “Good morning, milord.”
The man blinked. “And—and you are?”
“I’m Kenneth Fraser.”
“Why didn’t Elmo get the door?”
Elmo? “Pardon me?”
The baron frowned about, as if Kenneth might be hiding a man about his person. “The footman, Elmo. Or Missus Whinge, the housekeeper. Why didn’t they answer the knock?”
Kenneth was struggling to contain his laughter. How in the hell was he supposed to know where the man’s servants were?
“I’m sorry, milord, but I dinnae ken. I havenae seen them. All I ken is I knocked and ye answered.” Eventually. “Ye and I met last night.”
The older man, with his wild mop of graying hair, squinted at Kenneth for a long moment, then nodded. “Ah. The knight. Or baronet? Sir something.”
Och, aye. “Knight, milord, I was knighted eight years ago.” For services to the Crown, which meant upsetting an anarchist ring and killing an assassin before he could poison one of the British princesses.
“Kenneth Fraser?” he prompted. “We met last night. The ball. Ye were there, aye? I toured the Earl’s Egyptian collection with yer daughter. ”
At that, the Baron’s eyes lit up and a genuine smile crossed his face. “Were those funerary figurines not magnificent? I admit, I am an ancient Greek man myself.”
Since he appeared to be waiting for an answer, Kenneth tried to pretend they weren’t having this conversation while standing on the step, and nodded politely. “Are ye? Ye’ve aged quite well.”
“Thank you.” The man bobbed his head in agreement, clearly misunderstanding. “As did that ushabti. I was impressed that Errol was able to snag that set in such brilliant condition—we rarely get anything that good-looking coming out of the Peloponnesus.”
“Except yourself, milord,” Kenneth joked loyally. Was the man not going to let him inside?
Baron Fokette didn’t seem to notice. “Are you here to see my collection of Spartan breastplates? I received a particularly spectacular specimen last year—there’s a hole clean through it!”
And presumably, the chest of the poor bastard who’d been wearing it. Kenneth maintained his polite smile and shook his head. “Some other time, perhaps, milord. I am actually here this morning to call on yer daughter.”
The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Daughter? Daughter? Which one? Maggie’s married, you know. Can’t have her. I think the younger one is too young for you. Annabelle, that’s her name. We call her Bella—you can’t, mind.”
Kenneth pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. “Aye, milord, not her. Barbara, the one with the Egyptian collection.” Dear God, they didn’t all have antiquities collections, did they?
But to his surprise, the older man sighed and stepped back from the door. “Canopic jars and funeral steles. That’s all you young bucks want these days.” He lifted the book in front of his face and waved vaguely down the hall. “I should have guessed. She’s in her library. Upper level.”
With that, the Baron Fokette wandered off, muttering to himself about the book he was reading.
Leaving Kenneth to shut the door and stand, completely alone, in the entrance hall of the man’s home.
Huh.
He peered about, wondering if there was a butler, and if the man would be appearing any time soon. When he didn’t, Kenneth pulled his hat from his head and hung it on a stand by the door, beside several others.
Still no one appeared.
What had the baron said? That Barbara’s library was on the upper level? Well, the stairway should be back here…
He inched his way down the corridor, rehearsing an explanation in case a footman jumped out and threatened him with a polishing cloth for trespassing.
It definitely wasn’t Kenneth’s first time infiltrating a nearly empty home…
but it was the first time he’d done it at the invitation of the homeowner.
Even if the man seemed to have forgotten that particular conversation.
Reaching the stairwell without incident, he placed his hand on the banister and lifted his right foot—only to be stopped by a quiet voice.
“Where do you think you’re going, mister?”
Kenneth’s instincts kicked in. He crouched as he threw himself sideways, reaching for the hidden blade in the small of his back as he whirled about—
To see a boy. Holding a slingshot. Glaring at him.
The lad couldn’t even be twelve, and his wild mop of hair looked a lot like the Baron’s.
So this was the youngest, the heir, eh?
Slowly Kenneth straightened, forcing his fingers to unclench from the hilt of his knife. The lad’s aim didn’t waver—the middle of Kenneth’s forehead—and his expression remained serious.
Not the first time he’d had a loaded weapon pointed at his face. It was, however, the first time his attacker was a lad whose bollocks hadn’t yet dropped.
“Hallo.” Being charming meant charming everyone, so Kenneth tried a nonthreatening smile while frantically scrambling for the speech he’d practiced…before deciding it wouldn’t work on a boy. “I’m Kenneth. Who are ye?”
The lad stepped forward, the slingshot still at full extension and his arms showing no signs of weakness. “You look like a spy. Are you a spy?”
Kenneth reared back, unable to hide his shock and alarm. Keep it together, man! “I’m Sir Kenneth Fraser—I met yer sister at the ball last night, and she invited me to tour her Egyptian collection. Yer father just let me in.”
The lad stepped closer, his mouth pulled into a mulish frown and his slingshot stretched threateningly. “Are. You. A. Spy?”
Shite shite fook shite damn.
Not the first time his cover had been blown, either. Kenneth knew at least nine ways to kill an assailant in this position with only what he had on him…but could do fook-all when the assailant in question was the young son of his host.
That wouldn’t exactly be the traditional first step of seduction.