A Lady's Secret Weapon

by Tracey Devlyn

  She was not the only one harboring secrets. “Miss Hunt will do.”

  They shared a long look, an unspoken challenge between two individuals used to maintaining a high level of privacy. Neither gave in to the temptation to fill the silence or bare their soul. An impasse.

  He must have realized it, too. His full lips stretched into an appreciative grin. A genuine smile. The first she’d witnessed. All the others had been manufactured to elicit a specific response from her. This one, however, was pure Ethan deBeau, and it was magnificent.

  “You find something amusing, my lord?”

  “No, Miss Hunt. I am merely overwhelmed with my good fortune.”

  The seductive timbre of his voice whispered along the rim of her ear and caressed down the ridge of her spine. And that’s when she felt the first gentle tug. Then another… and another. He was toying with her hair. The furtive act was so innocent, yet heartbreakingly intimate. Her chest grew tight and her breaths shuddered between her lips.

  She could not bring herself to scold him, for she did not want him to stop. “Did this good fortune befall you while we were speaking?”

  He barked out a laugh. “Indeed, it did.” He resumed his gentle manipulation of her hair. “I am going to enjoy unraveling you, Miss Hunt. I’m going to enjoy it immensely.”

  Rather than ignore his masculine boast—as she would any other gentleman of her acquaintance—she took heart. Somehow she had managed to either pique his curiosity or provoke his competitive nature. Either way, when one needed to engage in covert activities, one did not want a spy hanging about, especially a handsome, charming spy.

  Changing the topic seemed a good idea, so she did. “You appear to enjoy an easy relationship with your staff.”

  His grin broadened, letting her know he understood her ploy. “We’ve been together a long time. The Tanners and my sister, Cora, were my one constant after my parents were murdered.”

  Feigning surprise, she exclaimed, “Murdered?”

  “It happened many years ago.”

  “Not so many for one to easily forget, I’m sure,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did the authorities find the man responsible?”

  His jaw tautened. “Yes.”

  Sydney had witnessed the uglier side of man many times over the last few years and had learned to numb herself to its presence. So the chill that etched its way down her spine after Lord Danforth’s terse response surprised her far more than his revelation about her dual identity.

  “That is good news, my lord.” Her own curiosity prompted her to ask, “How does your sister fare?”

  “Quite well these days.” He angled his head around to peer out the window for a long, contemplative moment. When he turned back, his affable features were back in place. “Enough about me. I’m more interested in your association with Abbingale Home.”

  She was not the only one who knew how to turn a topic. “I don’t understand why you care. It makes no sense.”

  “Are you working with the matron to find apprenticeships for the young men?”

  Joy rushed through her like a waterfall plunging down the face of a mountain. Had he just come up with a solution to her underlying dilemma? More than once, she had wondered what she would do if she found nothing linking Abbingale to Latymer. Leaving the boys to face such cheerless odds would have been nearly impossible. As often happened when she involved herself in the affairs of others, she became emotionally attached to the situation and sought to remedy the injustice.

  Sometimes the solution was as heartbreaking as the offense.

  But Lord Danforth’s intrusive query might be her answer to avoiding weeks of sorrow. For that, she would give him a truth. “No, my lord. I haven’t discussed apprenticeships with Mrs. Kingston, though your suggestion has a great deal of merit.” Perhaps other establishments like Abbingale, or even the Foundling Hospital, could use her employment services.

  “Care to share the true reason for your interest?” he asked. “Or shall this be one of those mysterious, unresolved topics in our relationship?”

  Given the extent of his resources and background, she doubted her interest in Abbingale would stay a mystery. What bothered her more was that he now considered their staid professional arrangement as something… more.

  “Nothing mysterious about my reasons for visiting Abbingale Home,” she said. “I’m simply not accustomed to sharing my business plans with strangers.”

  “Business?”

  She released an exaggerated sigh. “You are rather determined, aren’t you?”

  He released her hair and lounged deeper into the sofa, his pose more indolent than ever. “You have discovered my secret, Miss Hunt. Now will you share yours?”

  Despite his body’s relaxed pose, the intensity captured in his expressive eyes indicated her answer was of great importance.

  “If you must know,” she said, tucking a lock of hair that refused to stay pinned behind her ear, “I’m considering a donation, or possibly an annual subscription.”

  His face blanked, and he stared at her. After what seemed like an eternity, his slackened features firmed and his gaze glinted with a peculiar light. He sat forward, breaking the invisible barrier of what polite society would consider one’s intimate space. Those beautiful eyes of his roamed her face, hair, body with a thoroughness that made her stomach clench and her throat ache. Cold sweat coated her body. She veered back until the sofa stopped her retreat.

  “What is it?” She hated hearing the small tremor in her voice. “Did I say something amiss?”

  Her query cut through his razor-edged study, and his features shifted into their former affable mien. “No, Miss Hunt,” he said, settling back. “I applaud your charitable endeavor. In fact, I have an interest in Abbingale Home for a similar reason.”

  “Do you?”

  “Your shocked expression does not bode well. Do I appear an uncaring person?”

  “My surprise has nothing to do with the fiber of your character, sir. I simply find it amazing that, of all the boys’ homes in the city, you’ve selected the one that’s caught my interest.”

  “‘Selected’ might not be the most appropriate term. Abbingale is one of six I’ll be reviewing for my largesse.”

  “Six?” Sydney searched his eyes, looking for the merest twitch that would disprove his statement.

  He returned her inspection with a steady, unflinching gaze. “That’s correct.”

  “Let us hope you find one that meets your criteria, whatever they might be.”

  “Perhaps you would like to join me,” he said in a low tone. “I have yet to begin my search.”

  “Thank you, no,” she said. “Scheduling time for numerous visits to Abbingale has taxed Mrs. Cartwright’s rather enviable skill of keeping me organized. Six might lead to her resignation, and that I cannot afford.”

  His gaze caressed her mouth. “Then allow me to accompany you to Abbingale.”

  Whatever it was he wanted from her, he wanted it badly. Although the logical part of her mind screamed for her to sever any future association with him, the inquisitive faction of her mind encouraged her to plow forward.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to manipulate me?”

  He molded his expression into a respectable imitation of affront. If she hadn’t known of his work with the Nexus, his wounded display would have caused her some remorse.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I hope you understand that I’m here to assist with your staffing needs, nothing more.”

  “Why use an assumed name?” he asked. “You’ve built a good reputation around your agency, and ladies have always been encouraged to pursue charitable endeavors. Why not be yourself?”

  Sydney’s mind raced like lightning shooting across the sky. What plausible
excuse could she give him for concealing her identity from Abbingale’s staff? Then she hit upon a possible solution, one that held a deep kernel of truth. “At the Hunt Agency, I’m in a position to help many people. Some have come to see me as a savior, of sorts, and because of this they bring an assortment of concerns to my door.” She paused to organize her thoughts.

  “Interesting,” he said, “but how do your clients’ disturbances relate to your use of an alias?”

  “One of Abbingale’s former maids is cousin to a client of mine. After witnessing some rather harsh disciplinary treatment of the boys, the maid gave notice, even though she could ill-afford to lose her position.”

  “I suspect you were able to assist in that area.”

  “Thankfully, yes.”

  “Miss Hunt, what is your true purpose for touring Abbingale Home? I take it Mrs. Henshaw, the wealthy benefactress, is nothing more than a means for entrée?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “You do not intend to leave it that way, do you? Not after I admitted to not needing a new butler.”

  Because of her unconventional means of gathering information, she had become cautious in her actions and her speech. This particular part of her ruse did not require such secrecy, however. “Yes, occupying the feather-brained demeanor of a wealthy merchant’s wife provided me with the perfect excuse for viewing the inner workings of Abbingale. No, because I do not intend to simply walk away after satisfying my investigation. I will provide assistance to Abbingale—whether it will be financial or operational still remains to be seen.”

  He began toying with her hair again. “I find the complexity of your mind as stimulating as your beautiful figure.”

  Heat rippled through her veins and pooled in her womb. Her inner muscles clenched around tiny arrows of pleasure. She shot to her feet, unwilling to give his declaration any more power. “My lord, it is not necessary, nor even advisable, to spout out whatever comes to one’s mind.”

  He sighed. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Perhaps it would be best for us to reconvene our meeting tomorrow. Or, better yet, Mrs. Cartwright might be a more suitable liaison for you from this point forward.”

  Her new vantage point provided her with a modicum of relief from his nearness, until he unwound his large frame to tower above her, crowding her even more than before.

  “I’m sure it would be no hardship to work with Mrs. Cartwright.” He cradled her face between his palms, and Sydney’s breath caught. “But I would prefer that we continue on as before.” His thumbs brushed over her cheeks. “Well, perhaps not exactly as before.”

  Warm, humid air fanned over her skin a moment before his mouth covered hers. Without thought, her lips molded with the soft contours of his, allowing him to guide her into each hungry nip and taste, while her brilliant mind scrambled to gather up its loose wits.

  But it was no use. Desire forced all her logic and will into a far alcove of her mind, protected by thick bars of long-suppressed need. All she could think of was the decadence of his kiss, the delight of his scent, and the joy of his attraction. He was a master at this, she thought. Making women feel special and desirable. A gentleman like him would know all about a female’s pleasure points and how to use them to his advantage. A means to an end.

  His kiss changed, deepened. A sense of urgency now tinged his breaths. Then he changed. Releasing her face, he slid one arm around her waist and the other into the valley between her shoulder blades until his fingers cupped the base of her skull.

  A burst of lush heat blanketed her, followed swiftly by a keen sense of vulnerability. Her back stiffened, and he halted their kiss. Flattening her palms against his inconceivably massive chest, she gently, but firmly, applied pressure until he uncoiled his body from around hers.

  She stepped back. His breaths seesawed with hers in an oddly rhythmic dance. Until finally, her passions cooled enough for her logic to reemerge. And her humiliation.

  Dear God, she wanted nothing more than to cover her flushed face and run, long and hard, to the safety of her private apartment above the Hunt Agency. She could do none of this, not without enduring even more mortification beneath the viscount’s avid regard.

  “Did I frighten you?”

  How could she explain the volatile mix of emotions paralyzing her? “I’m not afraid of intimacy, my lord. But I’m not comfortable with being… crowded.” She cringed. Crowded wasn’t the right word, though it was the only one that came to her muddled mind.

  “My apologies. I’m quite aware that my size can be overwhelming to women. However, with you in my arms, everything felt right.”

  Sydney reached out to touch his arm, then thought better of it. “Your size had nothing to do with my reaction. It’s more a matter of control.” So I don’t feel backed in a corner, held against my will, unable to escape.

  “I see.”

  From the tone of his voice, Sydney worried he saw too much from her simple explanation.

  He waved his finger toward her head. “Your coiffure is in need of mending.”

  Sydney’s gaze shifted to the lock of hair dangling near the corner of her left eye. “Drat it.” She grabbed the irritating skein with one hand and searched for a pin with the other.

  “Allow me.” He batted her hands away and lowered them to her sides. Loosely clasping one of her hands in his, he brushed the wisp of black hair behind her ear. “As soft as the finest silk,” he murmured. “As dark as the purest obsidian.”

  His featherlight touch sent a delicious, racking shiver along every one of her nerve endings. She tried to absorb the dangerous beauty of the moment, even while she slowly leaned out of his reach. No gentleman had ever touched her with such familiarity since Philip. Handsome, attentive Philip. Her angel, her savior. The talented physician had made her forget, for a time, the cruelty of men. Their three-month-long courtship had been rich with adventure and filled with laughter. Never had she felt so free from her devastating past.

  So, on one lovely spring day, when Philip whispered words of love in between drugging kisses, Sydney knew the time had come to tell him the truth. A truth, as it happens, that even an angel could not forgive.

  “My lord,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize. “I’ve made it a practice not to become intimately involved with my clients.”

  “I adore your unusual height. Never will I develop a stooped posture with you around. I feel more youthful already.”

  His attempt to make her smile almost worked. Before he succeeded, she retreated two more steps. “You are talking nonsense, sir. It is time for me to go.”

  “Very well.” He gave her hand a squeeze of assurance before releasing it. “I look forward to our trip to Abbingale. When do you plan to return?”

  “I told you—”

  “That you did not have time to visit all six. You presented no objection to Abbingale.”

  Sydney knew debating the point with him would be senseless. He would merely lurk outside Abbingale until she arrived and then attach himself to her side. Besides, until she fully understood his motive for contacting her, she thought it best to keep him near her side. “If you insist, my lord. We will collect you at eleven on Sunday. Please be ready.”

  He bowed. “I will take special care with my toilette, so as not to embarrass you.” When he straightened, his eyes twinkled with mischief.

  Sydney’s smile broke free. His playfulness poked at a deep-seated need she didn’t fully comprehend but yearned to explore. “Good day, Lord Danforth.” When she made to open the door, a large hand swooped in to grasp the latch. She glanced at him with an inquiring brow.

  “One more thing, Miss Hunt.”

  “Yes?” Annoyance crackled her tone.

  “Thank you for taking care of me in the warehouse.”

  The study and all its furnishings disappeared, as if a large hole had opened beneath th
eir feet and everything tumbled over the edge into a great abyss. Everything, but her and the viscount.

  This was the moment Sydney had dreaded since Mac had first uttered Lord Danforth’s name yesterday. All she had worked for now teetered toward the same crevasse that had swallowed Sydney’s world seconds ago.

  “Warehouse? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  I won’t be this helpless forever, little maid.

  A sharp rap on the door startled Sydney, and she choked back a scream.

  “Yes?” Lord Danforth called, not taking his disturbing gaze from Sydney’s face.

  “Mrs. Cartwright and I have concluded our business, sir,” came the butler’s muffled reply.

  “A minute, Tanner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Relief spread into Sydney’s every pore, and the interruption gave Sydney enough time to shake off her devastating paralysis and retrieve her composure. “Lord Danforth.” She nodded toward his hand on the latch. “Do you mind?”

  He studied her features as if looking upon a precious gift. Brushing a finger along her jawline he said, “Keep your secrets. For now.”

  Tanner’s voice carried through the wooden panels. “My lord, there is a rather large gentleman here to see Miss Hunt.”

  “Thank you, Tanner.” To her, he asked, “One of your shadows?”

  “Most likely.” More softly, she said, “Mac won’t wait long.”

  He bent forward and pressed a devastating kiss to her cheek before moving away.

  Emotion clogged Sydney’s throat, and she raked her hand down her skirts to keep from reaching for him. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door. Mac took one look at her face and motioned to someone in the corridor before putting his body between Sydney’s and the viscount’s.

  Mick appeared. “Come, Miss Hunt.” He held out a hand, and Sydney slid hers into his, taking comfort from the warmth of his palm and the strength of his grip. He coaxed her from his lordship’s study.

  “I will see you Sunday, Miss Hunt,” Lord Danforth said.