Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
It wasn’t the lukewarm water raining over his head and chest that chilled him, nor Miss Harland’s refusal to play his scandalous game.
It was her comment about his mother. How would he avenge her if Harland refused to step onto the battlefield?
How could he beat a man who didn’t mind being called a coward?
Miss Harland had a way of slipping past his defences, striking the old wound with little more than a well-aimed word. Did she know he felt it like the jab of a blade to the—
“Hawke.” Ramsey snapped his fingers, more amused than impatient. “I’m starting to think you left your wits in Mayfair because your head sure as hell isn’t here.”
Dominic blinked, realising he was seated in the leather chair behind his desk, not standing naked in the wretched basin while his angel ogled his calves.
What the devil had possessed him to strip off his clothes? Yes, he’d planned to have Miss Harland pump the water, but not while he was in it.
“Shall I repeat the question?” Ramsey flipped through five pages of notes and sighed like a man faced with a monumental task. “Who will you refuse? Lord Stapleton or Sir Graham? They brawled in the paddock over Mrs Langford when they came for the Bacchanal.”
He didn’t care if they throttled each other in the pantry. The ton was overrun with deviants. Two less would be a blessing. “Accept both. But charge a reparation fee for the trouble they caused.”
Ramsey took up the quill and made a note on the first page. “Mr Hearst listed his valet among his party. I’m told he likes to wander the house in the dead of night.”
A vision of the valet creeping into Miss Harland’s room tightened Dominic’s gut. Not that it mattered. She’d be gone before sunrise. “Hearst dresses himself or he doesn’t come.”
“He was hoping for a little privacy with his servant.”
“Then he should keep his lover on a leash. Put Hearst next to Smithers. He had a taste for the man and his wife at the Crimson Carnival.”
Talk of guests’ habits might shock some, but nothing was as obscene as the sounds of them feasting like the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah.
And so it went on—lists of sickening requests, a house tailored for those addicted to pleasure. But there was nothing pleasurable about inviting another man into the marriage bed.
He was about to consider the next depraved demand when a sound drifted in through the half-open door.
“What the blazes is that?”
Ramsey tilted his head. “Singing, I’d say.”
“I know it’s singing. I’m not a fool.”
“That’s open to debate, considering the new maid is your enemy’s daughter. You should have had Jones drive her back to London. But I suspect you enjoy having her at your beck and call.”
Dominic scoffed. As if Miss Harland would ever bend to anyone. She hadn’t come to grovel. She’d come to hold him to account, chin high and claws bared, a walking reminder of his failings.
“Only days ago, you suggested I offer her a handsome reward. Now you’d have her bundled out before morning. Make up your mind.”
“You’re the one walking around as if you don’t know your arse from your elbow.” Ramsey leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching him with a knowing smirk. “Since when did a woman leave you rattled? Maybe we should arrange a wager. There’s men who’d pay a king’s ransom to see you come undone.”
“They’d be wasting their coin.”
The singing drifted down the hallway, an old folk song about love, red roses and sweet summer meadows, one that had no place in this iniquitous den.
“My confusion stems from not knowing what to do about Harland.” Or his distracting daughter. No man wanted to look weak within his own walls.
A light rap sounded at the door, followed by the clatter of a tea tray. She appeared, bright as a button, not a tear in sight. But he knew sadness lingered behind the bravado. He wouldn’t put it past her to hide a dagger beneath the shortbread biscuits.
“I bring the coffee pot, Mr Hawke. I believe you ordered enough to quench a desert army.”
Miss Harland strode into his study in the plain pink dress that made her look biddable, wearing a smile where he’d expected a scowl.
Her eyes skimmed the papers on his desk. “Should I make space, or will you?” She tilted her head towards the door, voice dropping. “Mr Beattie would insist on a tray table. One more cross on his list, and I’ll be demoted to the stables.”
“Yet a home for the depraved suits you better.”
She set down the tray. “Careful, Mr Hawke. That almost sounded like an invitation to stay.”
“You’ll not sleep a night in this house,” he said flatly. But even as he spoke, he imagined passing her door in the dark. Wondering if she slept. If she dreamed of revenge or of him. “We’ll discuss your removal once I’ve finished here.”
“Then I shall retreat and prepare my terms.” Like a general in training, she swept from the room, humming her little tune as she closed the door.
“Terms?” he grumbled. As if he’d agree to her demands. “We’re not pirates haggling on the high seas. Perhaps it’s time I bared my teeth.”
Ramsey chuckled. “You look like a man in sore need of a bite.”
What he wanted was to hate Miss Harland as he did her father, but the minx had charm and courage in abundance. He could not name another soul bold enough to knock on his door, let alone stage a coup.
“One has to admire her tenacity,” he said.
“When you left for London, you said she was as docile as a dove.”
“Chalk it up to the only time I’ve been wrong.” A mistake he would rectify once he’d finished preparing for the Masque.
Charlotte was meant to guide her. To teach her how to hold the world in her palm without ever taking a man to her bed.
Independence was the reward for playing her part in his charade. So what the hell was she doing at Shadowmere?
“What does she want from me?” he muttered, then cursed, realising he’d said it aloud. “What possessed her to think this was a safe option?”
“Happen she likes the taste of danger on her lips.”
He wished he’d never mentioned the kiss.
“It was barely a peck.” Yet he had threaded his fingers through her hair, bunched her skirts in his fist like he needed her bare beneath him. “Forgettable.”
Ramsey rubbed his jaw, as he always did when weighing lies on the scales of justice. “So forgettable you can’t even think straight.”
“That’s what happens when plans go awry.” He should be celebrating, raising a glass to his mother, reminding the world that those who crossed him paid the price. “Let’s go over the list, so I can finish what I started, and see Harland ruined.”
Ramsey shifted in his chair. “You’re sure there’s been no mistake?”
Mistake? The word had no place in his vocabulary.
“Trust me. I never gave the chit a second thought after I left the ballroom. Her being here is nothing but a temporary inconvenience.”
Ramsey’s lips twitched. “I meant Harland being the enemy. You’re certain this old neighbour can be trusted?”
His mind turned to the letter, to the tremble in his hand as he accepted the folded parchment, hatred rising. The villain finally had a name. One he would grind into the dirt.
“The men who work for the Order don’t make mistakes.”
And they knew better than to test his resolve.
“Besides, when I questioned Mrs Seagrove, she described my mother down to the mole on her cheek and the white streak in her hair.”
He’d looked the woman in the eye. She’d not wavered.
“She might have been persuaded to lie,” Ramsey said.
What was this, the Spanish Inquisition?
He slammed his palm on the desk, rattling the inkstand. “I deal with adulterers for a living. I know guilt when I see it. Harland knew exactly why I danced with his daughter.”
“Ruined his daughter,” Ramsey corrected. “Don’t dress revenge up with ribbons and pearls. No decent man would offer for her now.”
“There are no decent men in the ton,” he snapped, refusing to include himself among them. “Perhaps she should pay me. I’ve saved her from a life of misery.”
Ramsey shrugged. “You are the injured party. It’s not every day the infallible Dominic Hawke is ravished at a ball.”
Would he ever live it down?
The most feared man in London, outwitted by a woman.
“Be thankful I can think on my feet. From every angle, I looked the heartless rake.” Yet his reaction to the way she felt in his arms had been anything but staged.
The sooner Miss Harland was on the road back to town, the better. He’d send her to Charlotte with a list of instructions. And a terse reminder that he did not run a boarding house for wayward girls and fallen angels.
Steeling himself, he rang for Beattie.
“The new maid. Limit her duties to the servants’ quarters. I’ve no wish to see her in the house until I’m certain she’s staying.”
Beattie surprised him by speaking in her favour. “I doubt she’s used to hard work, but she’s light on her feet and pays attention. I’m confident she’ll come right, given the chance.”
Bloody hell. Was there no end to Miss Harland’s talents? She’d worked with Beattie half the morning and would probably make sergeant within the week.
“Remind her there’s no place in this house for singing.”
Beattie nodded and was halfway out the door when a footman intercepted him and muttered something in his ear. The housekeeper gave the younger man a reassuring tap on the shoulder, then turned back to Dominic.
“The local magistrate is here, sir, with a sergeant from Bow Street. They’re asking for you. Said it can’t wait.”
Dominic inwardly groaned. Sir Lionel Deane. Obnoxious prig. His wife occasionally attended Shadowmere’s gatherings, always when the man was out of town.
What crime did Sir Lionel wish to accuse him of now?
Luckily, he had an alibi.
Still, Ramsey looked a shade uneasy.
“Show them in.” He answered to no one, and he’d make damn sure they didn’t forget it. “No need to draw two chairs. They won’t be here long enough to catch their breath.”