Sydney had battled charmers, bullies, vacillators, and evil all her life. She knew how to handle each set with barely a flicker of forethought. Dealing with Ethan deBeau was no exception, though her adjustments to his moods came much more slowly than normal.
“Please do not concern yourself, my lord,” she said. “There is no reason for you to be present. I have your requirements—unless you have something more you’d like to add?”
A new intensity entered his study of her. “No, Miss Hunt. I have nothing more.” He lowered his voice. “At the moment.”
The promise behind his words raised the soft hairs running along the back of her neck. She pushed out of her chair. “Very good, then,” she said. “If you could let your staff know of my visit, I would be grateful.”
Rather than heeding her dismissal, he crossed one leg over the other and his body shifted to the left. He propped his elbow on the chair’s arm, smoothing his forefinger and thumb over his freshly shaven chin. The idleness in his action bespoke of contemplation and of quiet challenge.
Sydney’s gaze was riveted on the slow glide of his fingers, waiting with an embarrassing amount of anticipation for the soft pads to trail across his full bottom lip.
“Tell me, Miss Hunt. How long has your agency been in existence?”
She forced her attention up, away from temptation. “A little over four years.”
His fingers slowed to a provocative crawl. “Quite an accomplishment for an unmarried woman.”
Ah, familiar ground. The first ten minutes of their meeting had been nothing more than reconnaissance. Now that he knew the lay of the land, so to speak, Sydney suspected she would soon learn the real reason behind his visit.
She raised a brow. “Perhaps you would like a refreshment?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up at her disgruntled tone, and he stopped caressing his chin. Sydney experienced a stab of disappointment.
“Thank you, no.” He rested his cheek between his L-shaped fingers. “I’m intrigued by your story. How did you construct such a thriving enterprise?”
After exhaling a careful breath, Sydney resumed her seat. “I could not have accomplished half so much without the generous support of my parents and staff.”
“You must have a small army running around behind the scenes.”
She smiled at his probing question. “Hardly an army, sir. We are most fortunate in the number of clients seeking our assistance, but, like you, I am able to manage things with a modest number of well-qualified staff.”
“I wonder if perhaps I know your father. I’m acquainted with an Orson Hunt. Any relation, by chance?”
“Afraid not. Hunt was my mother’s family name.”
“What of your father? Did you not mention him earlier?”
Despite all of her bravado, Sydney did not enjoy sharing this part of her life, though she had never tried to hide the details of her parentage. But divulging the sordid facts of her upbringing to the viscount made her stomach turn queasy. “Jonathan Pratt is my stepfather. He raised me from an early age and is the only father I’ve ever known.”
She watched him sift through her explanation, bracing for the moment when he discerned he was about to contract the services of a bastard spinster.
“Why did your parents not change your surname to Pratt?”
“Do you always inquire into such personal matters?”
“Always.”
She leveled her gaze on him. “They discussed the notion with me, but I declined.”
“Why would you not accept such a generous offer?”
Generous, because not every gentleman would take on the responsibility of another man’s illegitimate child and have that base fact dangled before him every day by way of a surname.
“To remember.”
He waited for her to expound. She did not. Would not. Ever.
“You are becoming more intriguing by the second, Miss Hunt.”
Blood pounded in her ears. Instead of censure, his lordship’s countenance heightened with peculiar interest. Why hadn’t she realized feeding bits of information to this man would only provoke his curiosity? She should have devised a bland background that would have induced sleep rather than intrigue.
A wave of vulnerability washed over her. Always have a means of escape, Sydney. Always. Her mother’s warning filled her mind, and a flush of panicked heat dampened her skin. Sydney’s gaze shot to the closed door.
“Is anything amiss?” he asked.
She was overreacting to their byplay and knew it. But too many worries were converging in a short amount of time, heightening her deep-seated fears. Escape route. She had one. She always had one.
She blinked to clear her vision. There, precisely where she had placed it at the edge of the ink blotter, sat her silver bell. Her means of escape. The welcome sight acted like a balm for her overreactive nerves. She ached to wrap her palm around the cool metal, but could not devise a way of doing so without snagging the viscount’s attention. Instead, she drew in a soothing breath. As quickly as her anxiety had manifested, the debilitating emotion ebbed away on a long exhalation.
“Everything is fine, my lord.” She tilted her lips up into what she hoped was a convincing smile, while taming her hair once again. “In light of my revelations, I will, of course, understand if you wish to retract your request for my agency’s services.”
“I have no concern for your parentage, Miss Hunt,” he said. “Only your ability to find me a competent butler.”
“Then I had best get started.”
He unfurled his big body and moved closer to the front of her desk. Leaning forward, he planted his fingertips on the smooth surface. “Are you sure we have not met before?”
Sydney forced herself to hold her position, even though everything inside her sought the cloak of darkness. Darkness had always protected her, but no such protector could be found in the middle of the day.
She rose to her full height, meeting him eye to eye. “I believe we have already established that I have one of those faces that can be familiar to many.”
He angled his big body over her desk and lifted his hand. “No, Miss Hunt. We did not.” His attention shifted to where his fingers brushed the hollow of her cheek. “No man could ever mistake these contours for another’s.”
His featherlight touch should have repelled her, should have been a reminder. But it did not, was not. Instead, his aching gentleness compelled her to block all rational thought and to revel in the moment. Who would have thought such a large man could be so tender? By slow degrees, she relaxed the muscles in her neck and, by doing so, she leaned—the slightest bit—into his awaiting palm. Strength, warmth, comfort surrounded her cheek, and Sydney nearly groaned in response to the unexpected pleasure, closing her eyes. She had missed this, though Philip’s touch had never made her insides quiver with embers of desire.
His breathing roughened, making the embers spark into flame. Yet something nagged at the edge of her awareness. Too close. He was far too close. But she could not heed her mind’s warning, begging her to back away.
His warm breath fanned across her mouth. Her eyes flew open, and she found his face barely an inch away. In that instant, she knew she was not strong enough to prevent the kiss. Knew she would sink into it with a passion that would compromise everything. Already regretting her actions, but helpless to do otherwise, her hand fumbled on the desk between them.
A bell trilled out three times, rending the precious moment.
Startled, he glanced down. She followed his gaze to the tiny silver bell dangling from her fingers.
The door burst open, crashing against the wall. Mac and Mick stormed into her study, their hard gazes centered on his lordship.
Setting the bell down, she clasped her shaking hands before her and swallowed hard to control the erratic fluttering in her chest. The second
she felt her voice would not betray her, she said, “Gentlemen, I believe Lord Danforth is ready to depart.”
Mac swept his hand toward the door. “My lord.”
His lordship didn’t move. Those piercing, blue-rimmed eyes of his studied her with an odd mixture of primal need and empathy. She must never again allow herself the pleasure of his well-honed caress. She knew better this time but had been unable to resist his touch. A touch that had ruined scores of women or, more accurately, their men. For a perilous moment, she had allowed herself to forget. Forget his caress was nothing more than the razor edge of a warrior’s blade.
“Good day, Miss Hunt,” he said finally. “My staff will be ready for your visit tomorrow.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The twins followed Lord Danforth out, leaving Sydney alone to deal with her humiliating weakness. Covering her nose and mouth with her cupped hands, she strode to the window overlooking the street below and waited for his crown of sable-colored waves to appear. When she realized what she was doing, she whirled away and leaned against the wall near the window. She dropped her arms to her sides and tilted her head back, knocking it twice against the wallpapered surface, thankful no portraits hung above.
What had she almost done? Fallen prey to a man who consumes women like one feasts upon a favorite treacle tart? On what was, for all intents and purposes, their first meeting? She let out a derisive laugh. What had she been thinking? He was not interested in her in that way. His lordship choreographed the entire scene to loosen her reserve and draw out her weaknesses.
She recalled the day Mac had given her the beautiful silver bell, the day after a rather frightening encounter with an angry groomsman. Mac had given her the thoughtful gift along with strict instructions to keep it within reach anytime she was alone with a man. Any man. It didn’t matter if the gentleman was young enough to be her son or old enough to be her grandfather.
She had given in to Mac’s demand because she trusted him in the same way she trusted Jonathan Pratt. Mac had never let her down, and if her keeping a bell within reach brought him comfort, she would gladly do so.
The area between her eyes pounded with tension. She pressed the pads of her fingers against the throbbing flesh and rubbed in a circular motion. But the action had little effect; the pain had advanced too far. Her fingers curled into balls of frustration. She couldn’t afford this distraction now. With his lordship sniffing around her heels, she needed all of her wits to stay two steps ahead of him.
She pushed away from the wall, leaving thoughts of Lord Danforth behind, and made her way to her bedchamber. After many bouts of stubbornness that only resulted in prolonging her misery, she had finally learned not to fight the megrim and to take the laudanum sooner, rather than later. She despised the sluggish effects of laudanum almost as much as she hated the megrims themselves, but she knew no other way to reduce the fury in her brain.
When she rose from her bed, Sydney would have to face a new fury. One that, if she did not handle in the correct fashion, could cripple a nation. She had to find Lord Latymer. After his recent failure, he must be desperate now, and desperate people do desperate things. She refused to dwell on the possibility of her own failure. The last few years, she had navigated through worse odds and had emerged the victor.
She would do so again.
If she could keep one handsome viscount at bay.
Three
“Tanner.” Ethan stormed into the entrance hall of his Hill Street town house in Mayfair. “As of this afternoon you’re retiring.”
His butler blinked. “I am, sir?”
“Yes.” Ethan handed over his hat and gloves. “Can you pull it off?”
“Of course. Am I to retire in conversation only or must I make myself scarce?”
“Conversation only.” Ethan led the way to his study. “See that Mrs. Tanner understands the situation, would you?”
“She would serve me up boiled toast every day if I didn’t.” Tanner stopped just inside the study door. “Might I ask for how long and for whom?”
“A sennight and Miss Hunt.” Ethan poured himself a fortifying glass of brandy. “For reasons I can’t explain, I’ve hired her agency to find a replacement butler. Unfortunately, she feels the need to visit here and ask you some questions. She wants to prepare the new chap, or some such.”
A fleeting image of Miss Hunt wavered before his eyes. He had wanted desperately to break through the iron casing surrounding the proprietress and had resorted to what he did best: flirtation. The result had both amazed and dismayed him. Passion had softened her pretty green eyes moments before the panic had set in. That alarm had haunted his thoughts all the way home. He stared at the drop of brandy rolling around at the bottom of his glass. Still haunted him.
“Quite understandable, sir,” Tanner replied.
Ethan glanced up from his brandy-induced contemplations. His butler was a marvel, as was Mrs. Tanner. The couple had come with the estate when he’d inherited his title over a decade ago. Of course, his old retainer didn’t understand the reasons behind such secrecy and would never ask. While under the protection of Ethan’s father—the former Lord Danforth and Chief of the Nexus—Tanner had learned it was better to simply follow along.
When the former Viscount Danforth was murdered, Ethan had been too young to take his father’s place as chief. Not so now. Ethan had spent the intervening years preparing for this moment. Had taken on some of the most dangerous missions, like stealing behind enemy lines to rescue prisoners of war, to show Somerton his mettle. Somerton had taught him everything he knew about protecting England and himself from their ancient enemy, France. Moreover, as his legal guardian, the man had raised him from the age of fourteen, the year his parents were murdered, the year he became the next Viscount Danforth.
Some might think Ethan’s efforts heroic, brave, and noble. But he would never give so honorable a label to the savagery he’d had to commit. In order to save English prisoners, he’d been forced, at times, to sacrifice the lives of others. Some had been innocents or, at least, ignorant of what went on right beneath their noses. Others had likely been aware and simply not cared. He had killed for the greater good, as they say. Who could ever call that heroic? Ethan couldn’t.
Rotating his left hand, palm up, he splayed his fingers wide, revealing the cobweb of small and large creases marking his flesh, the fine scars and building calluses. So many times he had done this exact same exercise, hoping—no, praying—he would no longer see the blood of his victims stained within the deep recesses of his skin. He set his empty glass down. Out of habit, he rubbed his hands together, desiring soap and water to help cleanse away his sins. The stain gleamed brighter.
“Do I have any plans after my retirement, my lord?”
Ethan poured himself another drink and belted it back. The slow burn down his throat helped take his mind off the heinous images flooding his sight. “How the devil should I know? It’s my job to come up with a far-fetched plan, and yours to execute it.”
“Quite right, sir. That particular nuance slipped my mind.”
Ignoring his butler’s gibe, Ethan said, “You can expect an appearance from Miss Hunt sometime tomorrow.”
“Are you speaking of Miss Hunt from the Hunt Agency?”
Shev was right. “Yes, you know it?”
“The agency is known for providing hardworking and trustworthy servants in exchange for a few concessions from their potential employer.”
“Such as?”
“An adequate wage—based on the individual’s experience and prior performance—and one and a half days off each week.”
Ethan blinked. “One and a half days off?” The extra day seemed rather generous, to his mind. What would the servants do with all that extra time on their hands? He made a mental note to discuss the issue with Miss Hunt.
“That’s what I’ve heard, sir. They�
��re limited to a twelve-hour day, too.”
“How many hours a day does my staff work?”
Tanner’s chin rose. “As many as it takes, my lord.”
Guilt wrapped around Ethan’s chest and squeezed.
“Do you need anything more at the moment, sir?”
“No, Tanner. I suspect I’ve inconvenienced you enough.”
The study door closed softly, and the quiet that followed felt like the death knell of a judge’s gavel. He knew the life of a servant was difficult, but until this moment he never considered they might wish for something more than serving their master. An image of Miss Hunt’s disappointed countenance surfaced, and the band of guilt around his chest tightened.
Thoughts of the proprietress drew forth their earlier conversation. The memory picked at his mind like a surgeon removing splinters from a festering wound. Raw and painful.
No matter how hard he tried to woo information from her, she hadn’t yielded. In fact, she seemed to anticipate his probing questions. But the most frustrating part was his inability to place her. Her unusual height, voluptuous build, and dark hair created a memorable image, one not easily cast aside like that of so many other ordinary women.
And then there was the issue of the alias she used while visiting Abbingale Home. Why? Why would a respectable businesswoman feel the need to shield her identity? What possible reason could she have for visiting the boys’ home under such pretense?
He glanced at the clock. His appointment with Somerton wasn’t for another forty minutes. Even though he had arrived home only a quarter hour ago, he felt a restless need to be off again. Perhaps Somerton would be available to see him early. If not, he would make his way up to Somerton House’s attic. His sister Cora had mentioned that their old target area, where they used to practice throwing their knives, was still there. He had never mastered the skill like Cora, but he could hit any target he aimed at and achieve the desired result.
His palms tingled, though he refused to fall prey to their call. Focusing his mind on the tight rings of a target might be just what he needed, especially if he wanted to be at his best during his audience with Somerton. The course of his life would likely change in the next hour, and he wanted to be prepared for the arrival of his dream.
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