Chapter 2
2
William Renquist was filthy, tired, and ravenous. It had been a hard, eight-day ride from Holly House, his country estate in Cheshire. He should have stayed at another coaching inn to split the last leg of his journey, but after more than a week of sleeping in vermin-infested beds at various country inns and posting houses, drinking watered-down wine and eating spoiled beef, it seemed wiser to push onward.
After all, the Queen had finally commanded his presence, and one did not make her majesty wait if one cared about their long-term health.
Liam couldn’t believe the fates and their twisted sense of humour. When he promised Queen Victoria upon his return from the Anglo–Afghan war – almost four years prior – to join her secret band of vigilantes should she ever need a man with his particular skills, he never guessed his brother’s death would be the catalyst for her call.
Queen Victoria didn’t require his immediate services after learning the news of Reynard’s tragic end. She granted him three months to mourn his brother’s death. But the Devil’s Sons were only becoming bolder in their crimes. More women had gone missing. More country girls lured into the city, drugged, and sold into the flesh markets of Europe. And it wouldn’t stop until the evil bastards orchestrating the operation were destroyed. It was time for Liam to come back to London.
I should have returned the day Reynard stepped off the boat from France. Perhaps I could have helped him. Stopped him. Saved him.
But Liam thought Theodore had needed him more. And so, he had stayed in the country.
In the end, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t save either of them from their demons.
The Renquist legacy of evil. He shook his head, disgusted with his entire male line. But Liam wasn’t ready to give up the fight against the darkness plaguing his soul. The Queen needed him. And he needed this mission. A chance to redeem himself while also seeking absolution for his brother’s sins by dismantling the secret society of sick bastards Reynard had joined. Perhaps unleashing his beast on monsters worthy of the violence simmering in his blood would bring him some measure of peace.
Unlikely .
But saving the innocent women these diabolical lords wished to destroy might. He hadn’t been able to save his brothers from their own depravity, but he would do everything in his power to ensure he didn’t fail the girls being so horrifically exploited.
Liam completed what should have been a ten-day journey in record time, paying dearly for his haste. No longer a young buck, the endless hours in the saddle caused his back to scream, his hips to ache, and his bloody arse to turn as tender as a babe’s. Forty loomed a few years off and every joint and muscle in his body was intent on reminding him of this egregious fact.
What I need is a cold pint of ale and one of Cook’s hot meat pies.
He could have woken the household upon his arrival and had his meal delivered to him in his bedroom, but he detested the idea of disturbing his servants from their well-deserved sleep at such a late – or closer to the point, very early – hour just to cater to his whims. It was a shocking opinion to be held by a marquess, and yet one gaining traction in his thoughts since his return from the war. In battle, an enemy made no distinction between blue blood and that of a commoner; it all ran red when pulsing from a wound. His fellow members of the peerage seemed to forget that measure of equality the moment soldiers returned from foreign shores.
While noble lords had their copious lands and houses replete with servants, food, fire, and comfort in which to convalesce, their untitled brethren often returned to no work, no income, and no further military career. Liam had seen first-hand the luxuries awaiting these wrecks. Opium dens. Cheap gin. Begging on filthy streets. Labour camps. Prison. He despised the unfairness of it. Anger licked at the edges of his soul once more, threatening to flare into a destructive inferno. But he pushed it down to grow hotter, harder, until the rage forged a blade of vengeance he could wield against his enemies.
I suppose father taught me something useful after all.
Liam’s fury was a familiar and fearsome thing. It had been with him since he was a young lad. A companion born from the gentle tutelage of his father. Lord Richard Renquist, the fourth Marquess of Stoneway, believed the best way for his sons to overcome weakness was through experiencing extreme pain. A lesson he taught them repeatedly in their formative years.
When William joined the military and went to war, his father’s lessons were reaffirmed. In battle, it was almost a relief to give himself over to the black rage. He honed his pain into a weapon as fearsome as his rifle, as sharp as his sword. As a machine of combat, Liam didn’t have to think about consequences beyond immediate victory. It enabled him to endure torture and starvation and enact the same inhumane behaviour on his enemies. Men he neither knew, nor had any quarrel with outside of the fact his orders demanded their submission.
The glories of war where all manner of sin is deemed acceptable.
But rules of warfare didn’t apply in a civilized society. While his father and the war created a savage beast within Liam, his return to England demanded he reshape himself again. At least on the outside. And so, he donned the trappings of a noble lord and tried to remember his humanity. But the beast never died. It paced within him. Chafing on a short chain he held in a steel grip.
He still served the Queen, but his battlefield was now the ballrooms and billiard tables of the beau monde where sharp teeth and razor talons hid behind starched cravats and empty smiles.
Hypocrites. The lot of us.
And Liam was the worst. Cloaked in the costume of a marquess while evil lurked beneath his tailored suits and fine jackets. After all, he was his father’s son. Just as wicked. Just as damned. But he would not join his family in the fires of hell without dragging a few nasty bastards with him first. In this private war waged by the Queen and her select few, at least he knew his opponents were guilty and worthy of the punishment he would exact.
Cheerful thought for such a late evening.
He shook his head as he strode down the hallway toward the kitchen. He might be a wild creature hiding in the image of a perfectly pampered peer. He might be the fearsome monster lurking in darkness. He might be readying to tear apart the fabric of the beau monde one corrupt lord at a time.
But that doesn’t mean I need to wake my household at two in the morning to serve me a meal when I’m damn well capable of finding my own bloody dinner.
Liam was a wealthy marquess, a murderer whose sins were forgiven because of the uniform he wore while committing those crimes, a shell of humanity with far too much darkness inside, but he wasn’t a complete arsehole.
He entered the kitchen and found it was not empty.
‘My lord.’ A sturdy young woman pulled a flannel wrap close around her and attempted an awkward curtsy. An errant curl escaped her nightcap and brushed against a freckled cheek.
Cinnamon and cream.
The thought rose unbidden, and Liam’s mouth watered suddenly for a cream puff.
Absurd!
Monsters did not eat cream puffs. They ate the souls of the wicked, the cold metal of their enemy’s blade, the light of hope dying in their victim’s eyes. And meat pies. Steak and kidney meat pies particularly. Which should be the only thing consuming his thoughts. Not the colour of a young woman’s cheek. Or the way candlelight caught the curl escaping her cap. Or, God help him, the delicious curve of her lips.
His beast strained against the chains, but instead of growling, he purred.
Stand down.
He would never take advantage of a domestic working in his household, no matter how quickly the flames of lust ignited. This young woman was under his protection. His maid, for God’s sake. She was not some rare beauty. Her modestly clad figure was built for strength and economy, not seduction. Yet, his fingers twitched to test the softness of her skin.
He clenched his jaw against the sudden need, different from what raged in his belly, but no less demanding. How long had it been since he tasted a woman? Certainly not since his departure for the war. And why on earth was the sight of freckles on the pale cheek of a servant inspiring lascivious thoughts to swirl in his mind?
Evil inherited in the blood.
His father tupped any maid who caught his eye, with or without their permission. As a powerful marquess, he believed he had the right and taught his sons the same rule of law. As Liam grew older, he learned “civilized” society agreed with his father, even if something within him rebelled at such a breach of human respect. Rarely did magistrates listen to the complaints of domestics brave enough to speak out against their employers. Especially female domestics.
Then there was Reynard. When Liam learned the depths of his brother’s sins – sinking so low as to procure women for the Devil’s Sons in return for coin – it only further proved the soul-sickness infecting Liam’s family line. Evil inherited just as surely as the blond hair and amber eyes marking any Renquist man.
Theodore was another story entirely. A victim in ways Liam and Reynard never had to endure, but just as prone to seeking destructive methods to alleviate his pain.
Liam shared their blood, but he refused to let his base desires rule him the way they did his father and brothers. The beast inside him yielded to Liam’s will, not the other way around.
He would not wake the servants at ungodly hours to bring him his dinner.
He would not succumb to the numerous addictions afflicting his brothers.
He certainly would not harass the young maids in his employ to meet his sexual desires.
His soul was an empty husk, but he refused to fall to such depths as being monstrous with the innocent.
Liam lowered the lantern. ‘I hope I didn’t alarm you. I assumed all the servants were asleep.’ He let the unasked question hang in the air between them.
The girl’s cheeks coloured slightly in a blush.
Cinnamon, cream, and strawberry sauce.
His body tightened.
Jesus. He had gone too long without a woman, or a meal, or a decent night’s sleep. He couldn’t be sure what was causing such a lack in his self-control, but he would remedy the deficit immediately with food and rest. Sating his other desires was out of the question. Being naked and vulnerable with a woman could lead to disastrous consequences. Like feelings. And tupping one of his employees was unthinkable. His life was a snarled mess already; he hardly needed to add any more unwanted complications.
‘I couldn’t sleep, my lord. I thought perhaps some warm milk might help.’ She crossed her arms in front of her but instead of being diminutive, the gesture reminded Liam of a warrior brandishing her shield. Her eyes, their colour hidden to him in the dim light, darted from the noticeably empty stove to the equally bereft table before landing on the door behind Liam. There was an obvious lack of milk, cup, or saucepan. She was lying and looking for an escape.
Because his instinct was to move closer, to trap her within his reach, Liam stepped back. She could easily scamper past him if she wished.
‘Either you have just finished, or not yet started preparing your sleep tonic.’ His lips twitched as her blush darkened to a shade closer to cherries. He had called her bluff.
The young woman shifted on her feet. ‘I, um, yes. I already drank the, err – that is to say – I was just cleaning up and heading to bed.’
Perhaps a lad was waiting for her on the kitchen stoop. Liam glanced out of the narrow window, but there was nothing but darkness beyond the kitchen walls.
He returned his gaze to the maid. ‘There’s no need to rush off. I don’t mind a little company.’ Where the blazes had that invitation come from? Certainly not his brain, which was generally ruled by logic. He ground his teeth as if he could pull the words back and crush them to dust with his molars.
The girl looked flummoxed.
Of course she is. She hardly expected to stumble across the master of the house in the kitchen of all places.
A realm designated for servants. And then he invited her to stay with him like an old chum while he made a midnight snack. Scandalous in the extreme.
The omnipresent anger simmering beneath the surface of his skin bubbled hotter knowing his words caused her discomfort.
So let her leave then.
He wasn’t forcing her attendance. And besides, this was his house. He owned all the rooms, including the kitchen, scullery, and pantry. If he wished to eat in the kitchen, he damn well would, despite what some maid thought of him. A maid whose unexpectedly attractive mouth snagged his attention like a thorn might catch at his clothes.
That’s two times I’ve noticed her mouth.
Not a good sign. Suddenly very aware of how alone they were, Liam couldn’t ignore the inherent danger of the situation. For her. A maid could easily lose her position if there was even a hint of impropriety. He opened his mouth to dismiss her, but she spoke first.
‘I’m not well suited to conversations with men as high and lofty as yourself, my lord.’
Her tart tone inspired a quick response. ‘You prefer conversing with the low and dejected? Then let me assure you, I am the perfect candidate.’
A flash of surprise lit her eyes. ‘I would hardly call a marquess low or dejected. Even one as travel-weary as yourself.’
‘Really? What would you call me then?’
She opened her delicious mouth, then closed it again. He’d stumped her. A stupid glimmer of warmth sparked in his belly.
‘I shouldn’t dare call you anything.’
Liam raised a brow. ‘Really? What if I dared you? You seem like someone who enjoys a good dare.’
She swallowed. ‘I enjoy my job, my lord. I won’t risk it by taking any dares. Even when issued by low and dejected marquesses.’ She raised an eyebrow.
Bloody hell.
A worthy rejoinder, using his words against him. If the shape of her mouth was a thorn, her wit was a sharp blade duelling in wicked thrusts and parries.
Damnation .
Liam enjoyed a good sword battle. Which was incredibly unfortunate as he’d come to London determined not to enjoy anything.
‘A pity. I can only imagine what names you might call me.’ He quirked his mouth. How long had it been since he was tempted to smile?
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I hardly think the imagination of a marquess could lower itself to such levels.’
He had always been drawn to tart things. Jagged instruments. Danger in all its forms. This young woman had just insulted him without saying a single inappropriate or rude word. Rather impressive.
As if remembering herself, she folded her hands together in front of her and averted her gaze to the floor near his feet. ‘Please excuse me. It is late and I forget myself. Is there aught I can get you from the kitchen before I retire?’ Her words were polite, but she spoke them as though each syllable tasted bitter upon her tongue. Her full mouth hardened in a determined line and Liam wished she would look at him again. Gift him with her bewitching gaze.
Why in all the world was he noticing the shape of her lips for a third time? Three times too many for the perfect Cupid’s bow of her mouth to distract him from his thoughts. God’s teeth. He had neither the patience nor desire to trifle with such a prickly, intriguing, entirely-too-captivating young woman.
Not woman. Maid. In my household. Under my protection. Even if I must protect her from myself.
‘I can find my own snack, miss…?’
‘Smith, my lord. Penny Smith.’
Liam placed the lantern on the table and began opening cupboards, hoping Miss Penny Smith would slink away and out of his reach. She was proving far too enticing for a man whose family was inherently incompetent at resisting temptation.
He hadn’t the first clue where his cook would keep the food, but it certainly wasn’t in the cabinet against the far wall, of this he was becoming well aware. Sodium bicarbonate, lye, a few cakes of soap. No meat pies.
‘Are you looking for cleaning supplies, my lord?’ Miss Smith’s brow raised sceptically.
Damn. She’s still here.
First a set down, and now, this. Was she actually mocking him?
She kept talking. ‘Mrs Harding will welcome such esteemed assistance in scrubbing the counters. Indeed, we can all learn something from your mastery of lye and soap. I find them immeasurably useful in ridding the household of filth.’
Yes. She most definitely was. Her tone left no doubt that he was the exact kind of filth she wished to banish from the kitchen.
‘Or perhaps it is food you seek.’ Miss Smith skirted around him, providing a wide berth as she ducked into a small alcove. ‘Generally, it is kept in the larder, my lord. Much cooler in here than the kitchen.’ Her voice echoed from a small distance as he heard rummaging coming from the darkened room to his left.
The larder. Of course.
Idiot!
Liam moved the lantern and sat heavily at the table. So much for trying not to inconvenience his staff.
He rested his head in his hands and exhaled heavily. The next few months would be nothing short of torture, but Liam needed to complete this mission for the Queen, and for himself. To try and destroy the fraternity Reynard worked so hard to enter. To make tangible steps in righting so many wrongs his family had perpetrated against the most vulnerable. His violence might be vindicated if he could infiltrate the Devil’s Sons and burn it down from the inside. Finally, a war worth waging with no innocent casualties.
Miss Smith emerged from the darkness with a platter blessedly filled with fresh-cut ham, several cheeses, an assortment of fruit, and – sweet saints in their cloudy castles – a meat pie. The groan that escaped Liam was almost sexual in its intensity.
Miss Smith’s blush re-emerged and her eyes widened. She was close enough now that he could determine their hue. Hazel with rich brown striations. The colour of the forest. Moss-green and rich earth. Secrets swirled in their depths, mysterious and tempting. They reminded Liam of the cool shadows from the forests surrounding his country estate. His private sanctuary from the world. Pixie eyes full of unheard confessions. Dark lashes fluttered as her focus flickered from the table to the platter she carried, eventually landing on his shoulder.
‘I suppose you’re famished, my lord.’ She quickly moved next to him, her wrap brushing against his arm as she bent to put the platter down. Well-seasoned meat was momentarily eclipsed by sweeter scents. Vanilla and cloves and something else. Soap, perhaps. Clean skin and sweet woman re-ignited the fire of arousal in his belly. Liam gripped a fork in his fist, his knuckles turning white as he brutally fought against his desire.
She was not for him. For so many reasons, the least being their vastly different social stations.
She is a maid, and I am supposed to be a gentleman.
He tightened the iron chains around his libido and tried to focus on the repast in front of him.
‘Would you like something to drink? Wine, perhaps? Brandy?’ Her gaze stayed locked on the table. In any other servant, Liam would take this as a sign of deference, but something in her stance, her stiffened spine, the way she clenched her jaw and pressed her lips together made it very clear she did not want to look at him. If pushed, he would guess Miss Smith distinctly disliked him despite their well-matched verbal sparring earlier. Which shouldn’t bother him.
If she doesn’t like me, she should leave. I didn’t request her help.
But she was his servant. His request was not required. Her job was to anticipate and meet his needs regardless of whether or not he voiced them.
What I need is for her distracting presence to be gone.
But why did she display such obvious disdain toward him? It was a riddle tickling his brain. Liam read people well. It was one reason he was so good at his current job. But even a blind man could sense her derision. The layer of polite deference she cloaked herself in as securely as her wrapper didn’t hide the sharp edges of her contempt. For him. Contempt she seemed to have forgotten during their initial exchange.
She’s remembered it now.
The mystery of her ire created an itch he felt compelled to scratch. Generally speaking, Liam cared little for other people’s opinions of him unless those people were close, respected friends. Lieutenant General Robert Killian, Duke of Covington, for one. Major General Beaufort Drake, for another. They had been through two years of hell together in the war prisons of Afghanistan and come out of that endless torture still alive, if not completely intact.
His brother had been with them, suffering alongside Liam. A fact causing him acute pain. He had hoped a kinship would grow between himself and Reynard during their time in service. An understanding of their shared horrifying childhood and a commitment to battle their demons together. But the war only further fractured their relationship.
Still, he would never have guessed his younger brother capable of sinking so deeply into darkness. But the evidence was irrefutable. And the reason Liam’s new mission was even possible.
The Queen believed Reynard’s treason against human decency had created a unique invitation to infiltrate the Devil’s Sons. An invitation only Liam could accept. After all, he was Reynard’s brother. They shared a troubled upbringing at the hands of a corrupt lord. Certain members of the peerage might believe Liam shared the same moral flexibility of his father and brother. A belief the Queen cultivated with judicious whispers sprinkled throughout the beau monde during the months Liam remained in the country.
Reynard’s lack of money made him desperate and easy to control, but Liam’s wealth and power gave him influence within the higher echelons of the beau monde. An influence the Devil’s Sons were sure to appreciate. The Queen saw all of these possibilities in Reynard’s unfortunate death. And while Liam wanted to disagree, she was annoyingly right.
He should feel remorse. Grief. Loss. But Reynard left Liam long before his heart stopped beating. Their father had driven a wedge between the boys since they were old enough to walk. They were not brothers, but instead, competitors in an endless battle to claim the elusive gift of their father’s approval. A prize neither of them would ever attain and, as Liam came to realise, one he didn’t even want. He tried to convince his brother of this truth, but the constant competition twisted something in Reynard.
While they both grappled with rage born from pain, Reynard knew no boundaries in his quest for power. The Devils’ Sons offered Reynard something Liam could not. A chance to let his broken moral compass point in whatever direction it wished as he scrabbled to attain his worth in wealth. Even if that wealth was earned on the backs of young girls.
When news of Reynard’s death reached Liam, he was ashamed to admit relief eclipsed every other emotion. What kind of brother felt such things at the death of a sibling? Not a very good brother. Not a very good man.
Miss Smith’s exasperated sigh reminded Liam he’d been quiet far too long. She’d asked him a question. What was it? Ah, yes. Did he want something to drink. ‘Ale, if there is any?’
Mild shock flashed in Miss Smith’s eyes before she schooled her expression to be carefully blank. Ale was the drink of the common man, but Liam had developed a taste for it during the war and made sure it was stocked in each of his households.
‘Ale.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘For the low and dejected. Of course, my lord.’
Her clear sarcasm amused Liam. The itch was back. To unravel the tangle of her dislike.
Miss Smith disappeared again. This time, she descended into the cold room below the kitchen. She returned with a tankard and plunked it down in front of him. Astonishing, to feel like a complete arse in his own kitchen while she politely served him. Which is exactly what she wanted him to feel, he was certain.
‘Thank you, Miss Smith.’
She blinked her response, crossing her arms over her chest once more. This close, he couldn’t ignore the drastic dip where her small waist met much more generous hips. His first assessment had been wrong. She wasn’t stout, but rather a fascinating blend of strong limbs and soft curves. He couldn’t help wondering what less clothing and more light might reveal.
Absolutely not. I am a gentleman, and God damn it, I will behave as such.
It was far past time to dismiss the young woman to the safety of her room. ‘I’m certain you’re anxious to get whatever sleep you can tonight. Please, feel free to take your leave.’
Miss Smith bit her lip, assessing him before she seemed to remember herself. She uncrossed her arms, ducked her head, and dipped into a shallow curtsy.
‘Goodnight, my lord. Though good morning is closer to true. I’m sure the household will be exuberant to know you’ve arrived so much sooner than expected. We do so love an opportunity to flurry about.’
There it was again. Innocuous words wrapped in the tart acidity of lemons. Reprimanding the lord of the manor for returning early to his house. Liam’s lips twitched as she turned and exited the kitchen. Belatedly, he realised he should have offered her the lantern, but something about Miss Smith made him think she preferred to sneak her way back in the dark.
Something we have in common.
He had always preferred the darkness. An odd kinship to find with the intriguing woman.
Not a woman. Just a servant.
A sentiment he’d already reminded himself of several times that evening. Because he needed the repeated message. Miss Smith was someone of whom he should take no note, and certainly entertain no interest. Far more pressing issues demanded his attention than a surly maid with cream-and-cinnamon cheeks, eyes of the forest, and a personality as sharp as a lemon tart. Yet, as he sipped a frothy mouthful of ale, he couldn’t help contemplating exactly what caused her contempt. Perhaps she knew the truth. That Liam was a monster cloaked in the trappings of nobility. Wouldn’t that be shocking? A maid who knew the worth of her marquess.