by Deb Marlowe
“Ah, excuse me, madam . . . but, but, I do not think—”
“I’m sure you do not,” Hestia interrupted. She ran an appraising eye over the tall, well-formed man. “But then again, I doubt that is why Mrs. Ledger hired you.”
The footman returned the scrutiny and for the first time, Stoneacre looked past Hestia’s changed hair to her gown. She wore a black pelisse over fawn colored skirts with some sort of shimmery, gauzy overlay. Unusual. Not the sort of thing normally worn by fashionable women—but the quality was evident and he seriously doubted the footman would know the difference.
“I have an appointment,” she informed the servant. “Please show me to your employer’s office.”
The footman gaped. “But the Madame is not here!”
Hestia drew back, looking appalled. “Not here? Mrs. Ledger? She is not here to meet with Lord Marstoke’s appointed courier?”
“I . . . I . . .” Clearly the man had no idea how to respond.
“A message was sent! The time appointed! Have you people ignored his lordship’s wishes?”
The footman stood frozen.
“Mrs. Ledger. Where is she?” Hestia demanded.
“I’m sure I don’t know!” the footman gasped.
“I’m sure someone should!” Hestia pursed her lips. She turned away and took a few steps around the entry hall. Somewhere above a door opened and music and laughter drifted down. When the door closed and the noise stopped, Hestia turned on her heel. “Do you know what will happen to your Madame if she does not pay her tithe to Marstoke?”
The footman swallowed, looking frightened to death.
“Surely there is someone here who can tell me where she’s gone? They may very well save her, in doing so.”
“I . . . Well . . .”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Reimer likely knows.”
“Well, then. Take me to him at once!”
“He’s . . . ah . . . occupied at the moment.”
Hestia sighed and closed her eyes. “Yes, I see. Your employer steps out and the help decides to sample the wares.” She frowned ferociously. “You can be sure I will report all of this to Lord Marstoke.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am—”
“Never mind. Show me to Mrs. Ledger’s office. I’ll wait for her lackey to finish his . . . business.” She clapped her hands. The footman jumped as the sound echoed against the marble. “Let’s go, then!” She beckoned to Stoneacre. “Come along.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Stoneacre bit back a grin and ambled after them. The grin faded, however, as the footman led them up a short flight of stairs and into a large, crowded and dimly lit room. Rich, cluttered and sumptuous, it might have graced any home in Mayfair. Card tables were scattered across the center of the parlor. Gentlemen indulged, while the ladies of the house draped themselves over laps and shoulders. Low couches and chairs lined the edges of the room, occupied by couples and groups in various states of entanglement. A pair of scantily clad girls sang a naughty song atop a small dais in one corner.
Stoneacre wondered briefly if Hestia suffered the same sort of anger as he did, walking through the sordid opulence. What would they do, all of these men of wealth and good standing, if he marched to the middle of the room and shouted the truth—that their money was going to support a traitor, a violent, virulent plague upon the good people of England?
“Don’t gawk,” Hestia snapped at him. “And keep up.”
He scurried after her. The frustration must be worse for her. To be sure, she’d never worked in a low situation like this, but he knew she had shut plenty of them down, and must have witnessed every sort of abuse the girls at these places suffered, from both the customers and their masters.
She showed no sign of it, though. Keeping her head high, she followed the path set by the footman. He led them away from the room and down a candlelit corridor graced with a plush carpet and scrolled wall sconces. He opened a door near the end and they all entered.
The office was well appointed and tastefully done up in shades of blue. Hestia avoided the large desk at the center of the room, heading instead for the tray of decanters sitting atop a side table. “Fetch your Mr. Rinner—”
“Mr. Reimer,” the footman corrected automatically.
She raised a brow and Stoneacre laughed inwardly as the fellow squirmed. She had him completely cowed.
“Yes. Him. Fetch him straightaway.” She poured a glass of brandy. “We’ll wait here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The footman bowed and began to back out, as if she was the queen and he daren’t turn his back to her.
“Don’t dawdle,” she warned.
“No, ma’am.”
The door closed and Stoneacre immediately moved to the desk. “Can you listen at the door?” he asked. “Tell me if someone comes.” He quickly rifled through all of the accessible drawers, before kneeling in front of the locked one.
Hestia made a small sound of agreement. She was at the door, peering out. Stoneacre turned his attention to the small, thin packet that he pulled from his coat pocket. He examined the lock, then let his fingers hover over his favorite set of lock picks.
“Any information we can use won’t be in the locked drawer. Check for false bottoms in the others.”
Hestia’s voice sounded muffled. He looked up and found that she’d closed the door and removed her wig and her pelisse. She was bent over, trying to untie the gauzy overlay from her skirts.
Was she right? Well, he couldn’t leave any stone unturned. Stoneacre pursed his lips and went to work. Only a couple of minutes passed before he felt the last click and slid the drawer open.
He suppressed a groan. She was right. Inside lay a tangled dragon’s hoard of jewelry. A mix of trumpery and the occasional real jewel, if he was any judge of those pearls and a set of ruby earrings. He reached in and the whole mess came out in one piece, proving there was nothing else of real interest in the drawer.
He paused for half a moment to laugh a little. How did she know?
Without looking at Hestia, he dumped the glittering knot back in and returned to the unlocked drawers. He found the false bottom in the middle right drawer and yanked it open.
“Here it is!” He frowned down at the sheaf of papers. “Monthly incomes and expenses, a list of gentlemen’s names, marked ‘special’ . . .” He whistled. “Including a couple of MPs.”
“No surprise there,” Hestia said with a sigh.
“There’s a list of girls ‘sent on’, and here we are—a list of payments made to Marstoke.” He whistled. “And a substantial one to be made the day after tomorrow.”
“The day after tomorrow?” Hestia sounded dismayed.
He looked up—and blinked. It might have been yet another altogether different woman standing over there. Her blonde curls were loose and messed. Her fawn-colored bodice was gone. A forest green one must have been lain underneath. It was markedly smaller—and she was fashioning the gauzy overskirt into a not-very-effective, clavicle-skimming fichu, fastening it in place with a cheap-looking clasp she took from her hair.
She didn’t look like quality any longer. Her skirts, without the extra shimmer, appeared sturdy and plain. Even as he watched, she folded the wig into the pelisse and used a long, ornamental clasp to close it. Reaching up, she attached it to a loop on the underside of her skirts.
“Good heavens, Hestia. You’ve turned yourself into a doxy.”
He said it blandly, but his heart gave a great thump—and then stalled. He sank down into the desk chair, brought low by a savage stab of unbridled lust and sheer admiration.
For she was indeed utterly changed, once again. Flushed, and slightly mussed, like she’d just crawled out of someone’s bed.
And he nearly dropped the papers as anger surged, sudden and violent, from his gut.
Damn the fates. Damn Prinny. And damn her too. It was colossally unfair. That such a woman should exist—gorgeous, determined, principled, wily and resourceful—and that he should be expect
ed to satisfy himself instead with a child—some sweet, simple girl bred to go uncomplaining from the schoolroom, to the ballroom, to the bedroom.
He pushed back against the rage, shoving it down, deep inside, where she wouldn’t find any evidence of it. And he summoned a grin. “Just like that,” he said lightly. “Well done.”
“Indeed,” she returned. “Thank you.” She smoothed her skirts down. “Mrs. Ledger must be meeting Marstoke some distance away if the payment is set for the day after tomorrow and she’s left already. Will he meet her himself? Perhaps he’ll send one of his lieutenants. Does it say where the meeting is to take place?”
With a start he recalled the papers in his hand. He scanned them. “No.”
She cursed under her breath. “Well then, Stoneacre. You will need to transform too.” She waved a hand. “Just like that. Change your coat so it is inside out, as if you’ve done it for good luck in the gaming.”
“Ah.” He stood and hurried to do as she bid. “Are we going eavesdropping, then?”
Her brows raised in surprise—and approval. “Mr. Reimer has already been caught out once tonight.”
“He’ll be defensive. And suspicious.”
“Yes. It’s unlikely he’ll voluntarily tell us anything useful.”
He shrugged back into his turned-about jacket and tucked the papers into his waistband at the back. “Then let’s not give him the choice in the matter.”
Nodding in approval, she cracked open the door and peered out. “Wait.”
A pair of giggling women hurried by.
“Now.” She slipped out and took his hand, pulling him along with her. “The footman went this way.” They hurried around a corner. When the new passage came to a crossing, she paused and held up a hand for silence.
It wasn’t something that he’d ever done before—listening closely inside a brothel. For good reason, it turned out. Laughter and talk drifted from the parlor at the front of the house. From somewhere nearby came the vigorous squeaking of bedsprings. And from behind the door at his elbow came the sound of a man reciting his nines.
“Two nines are eighteen. Three nines are eight and twenty.”
Thwap!
“Seven and twenty, I meant to say!”
Stoneacre grinned and looked to Hestia, but she had her head tilted, listening. He slid in close behind her and waited.
Hestia listened and tried not to wonder what that look had been about. Stoneacre had appeared to be delighted at her disguise—and then . . . something else had flashed behind his eyes. Anger?
It puzzled her. She’d been thinking how easy he was to work with, how quick to size up the situation and react. And now . . . now she had to try to rein in her fluttering heart.
It wouldn’t listen. It had been entirely thrown by the feel of the earl pressed close behind her. The size of him. The heat he pumped out, like a warming brazier. And the comforting smell of bay with a slight tang of citrus.
It had been a long time since so much glorious masculinity had hovered so close. She told herself that was why her skin prickled and her heart tripped along, unsteadier than a Thoroughbred stuffed with opium balls before a race.
She sighed, forcing herself to focus instead on the soft, incessant knocking on the door around the corner. There was work to be done—and no time for anything else.
The knocking stopped.
“Have you lost hold of your senses?” A masculine voice, full of annoyance and threat. “I told you to leave me be!”
“It’s an urgent matter, sir. I don’t think it can wait longer. I would not have disturbed you, otherwise.”
She held her breath. They were so close. Stoneacre crowded even closer behind her. They both stood quiet while the footman spoke low and at length.
“What other message?” the other man demanded. Mr. Reimer, she presumed. There was nothing of panic or worry in his tone. Only outrage and impatience to get back to his . . . activities. “We received a message. The message. The one that bid the Madame to travel to make the payment.”
Travel where? She pressed herself against the wall, willing the man to say it out loud.
But the footman was muttering again and Reimer continued to scoff. “I daresay someone is playing you for a fool. Now leave . . .” A silent pause. “Unless . . .”
The footman and Hestia and Stoneacre waited. “Marstoke’s other houses all received the same message,” Reimer mused. “There was enough griping about it. Did they all get the second message as well? Did ours go astray?”
“I could send a boy to one of the other—”
“No. We must be . . . careful. What if this is a ploy? One of the others could be trying to trick old Ledger into missing the drop. She’d be discredited with Marstoke then, right enough.”
Hestia heard the man suck in a breath. “Wouldn’t it be just like that Madame Noir? Noir!” he scoffed. “As if we don’t all know that she’s plain Ann Jenkins from Ipswich!”
The footman made a sound like a squeak. Had Reimer grabbed him?
“Here now, what’s this tart look like? Marstoke’s supposed envoy?”
The footman took a moment to answer. “She’s pretty. Fair skinned and red-headed. Irish, maybe? Though she didn’t sound it.”
“Irish? They do say that old Molly Beck has a couple of new Irish girls.”
“She’s dashed odd,” the footman continued. “She looks like she’s got money, but no idea what to do with it. No idea of fashion.”
Hestia glanced back at Stoneacre, her mouth quirking. The footman saw more than she’d expected. Perhaps she would consider hiring him away.
“She’s hard, though. Like Marstoke,” the footman added. “Likely she’s got a mean streak, too.”
That killed her smile. Hard? Yes. By all that was holy, she was hard. She had a knife’s edge honed by years of tense self-reliance, of sorrow and sacrifice. Years of dealing with Marstoke and with a great many other evils wrought by man. Hard, yes. But like Marstoke?
No. Not in a thousand years.
“Here’s what we’ll do. You go and distract them,” Reimer ordered. “I’ll send young Charlie to Molly Beck’s house to ask about a second message. He’s fast.”
“Distract them? How?”
“I don’t know. Send in a girl. Or a boy. Whatever. Or offer them a stake in one of the games in the parlor. Just keep them busy for a bit.”
“I can’t offer them a girl!” The footman sounded aghast. “Besides, she don’t seem the sort to be easily swayed from her mission.”
“Dammit, man! Just find a way! We need to find out if this is a trick before we send word to recall the Madame.”
Hestia started as the door slammed. Immediately, she turned and pressed up against Stoneacre, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. “Now, sir,” she cooed. “You know that some things are best done in private. The cost of a room ain’t much—and what better use for all them winnings?”
Stoneacre, bless him, caught on right away. He wrapped his arms around her, bent low and buried his face in her hair.
She felt the footman come around the corner, in the change in the air and in the sudden tension in the earl’s frame. Letting loose a soft, sultry chuckle, she arched her body into Stoneacre’s.
The footman passed. She watched him over the earl’s shoulder. He was moving fast, but he slowed as he reached the end of the passage. Instead of turning the corner to return to the office, he stopped and began to spin slowly on his heel.
She stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to the earl’s mouth.
He stiffened. His hands clenched at her lower back. Opened and clenched again.
She listened for the footman’s step. Nothing. He hadn’t moved—either closer or away. Was he watching?
Stoneacre must have reached that conclusion. Without warning, he bent his head further and kissed her back.
Really kissed her. Deeply and fully. She forgot to watch the footman as his lips pressed hard and hungry, as if all of him was starved for the
taste of her. His tongue plundered her mouth, exploring thoroughly and demanding an answer in kind.
She gave it to him. It was to be expected. She played the role.
But the clear, logical flow of her thoughts, the concise observe, react, adapt, that always clicked into place during a mission like this—it all slowed. Snarled. Curled in on itself, entwining until it became as jumbled and disorderly as a carting accident in the Strand.
She’d been kissed a hundred times. More. She’d been kissed to convey possession, as pleading, as punishment. And this kiss was masterful. But it wasn’t controlling. It wasn’t a weapon, a question or a command. It wasn’t like any of the others.
She tried. Tried to retreat. To take a step back and watch. Stay calm. Evaluate. Plan.
She couldn’t. He kissed her slowly, with a lovely, maddening rhythm that called her. She answered—but the shocking thing was that she wanted to answer. Heat poured off of him and she burrowed into it, against that broad, solid wall of a chest. She kissed him back. He was gentle. She was thorough. Their tongues moved in a languid dance that crept beneath her skin and shivered through her veins.
Hidden away, at her core, sheltered a small orb. Tucked away. Safe. Untouched. The music of his kiss wrapped around it, knocked with soft throbbing beats against the hard shell.
No. That wasn’t part of the role. Nor was the sudden, nearly irresistible urge to grasp him hard and pull him tighter against her.
She didn’t think it was play-acting either, when he gave a nearly imperceptible growl and his breath brushed hot and fast over her cheek.
Alarm had her shaking. Stunned, she stared up at him.
She was going to be the death of him.
The shock of that kiss still bounded within him, ricocheting from one nerve ending to the next.
She’d meant it to be a lie. A means to an end.
Instead, in the end, it had turned out to be . . . true.
And his entire being was still caught in a flood of ancient reflex. A storm of primal urges that all coalesced into one, thrumming thought.
