Hannah eyed it as though she’d been handed the king’s head on a platter. “Miss?” she squeaked.
“May I?” She gestured to Hannah’s drab brown, hooded garment.
A sharp gasp echoed around the rented hack. The cloak slipped from the maid’s fingers and landed with a heavy thump on the floor. Recoiling, her maid folded her arms protectively at her chest the way she might guard her goods from a highwayman. “M-Miss?”
“Well,” Sybil began with a calm pragmatism meant to reassure. “I need to go there.” She drew the curtain back a fraction and pointed out at the yellow stucco townhouse. “And though I do see your point in the dangers of going there.” She gestured once more. “I am determined to see this through.” She paused. “With or without your assistance. But I would greatly prefer and appreciate it.”
Hannah sank back against the torn squabs. “I-I cannot, miss.” Miss. She spoke as though Sybil wasn’t a woman just one year shy of her thirtieth year, without even a hint, hope, or promise of a marital prospect.
Another lady might have been deterred. Sybil, however, had never been most ladies. Which was also, no doubt, why she’d also found herself unwed. And, of course, her spectacles and plump cheeks and her propensity to speak her mind. This moment would be no exception. “Hannah,” she said, inching closer as her maid scooted further away. “I, of course, understand your reservations.”
“Fears, miss,” the girl stammered, sparing a nervous glance at the faint crack in the curtains. “They be right, real, and very perilous fears.”
“Indeed,” she offered in placating tones, meant to set her loyal maid at ease. Those tones had long been perfected through the years with her stern-faced, often displeased mother.
Hannah’s shoulders sagged in visible relief.
Though she had served Sybil for the better part of four years, she apparently didn’t know her mistress well enough to be properly wary. Sybil pounced. “However.” A tortured groan seeped from the girl’s lips. She continued through it with logic Mrs. Wollstonecraft would have lauded her for. “I’m nine and twenty. A spinster. London is largely empty, but for my family.” And, fortunately, the Pratts. “What trouble can I get in to?”
Still, her maid hesitated. It was a testament to the girl’s gumption. Most would have cracked under the pressuring of her mistress. However, the Viscountess Lovell inspired fear in nearly all…and certainly the servants in their employ. Sybil attempted to reason with her once more. “I cannot step outside in my cloak and risk being seen.” Hannah worried her lower lip. “I’ll be but a few moments,” Sybil pressed, lying. She knew not at all how long she’d be. It might be seconds. It might be minutes. Sybil stole another glimpse through the crack in the curtains and rubbed her gloved palm over the frosted pane. Baron Webb may not even be home. He might be off doing whatever it was rakes and rogues did in London during the Christmastide season. Of which, riding in storms did not seem to be one of them.
“Oh, miss.” Hannah dropped her face into her palms in capitulation.
Beaming, Sybil held her hands out and patiently waited.
With all the eagerness of a lady being divested of her finest gems by a London pickpocket, her maid unfastened the frogs, muttering something under her breath that sounded a good deal like “I’m-going-to-be-sacked-for-sure”.
“I’d never allow Mother to sack you,” she said, giving the girl a reassuring pat on the knee. “I would speak to Father on your behalf and, well, my parents know I cannot be deterred when I set my mind to something.”
And she had set her mind to this nearly six months earlier. That was when the man whom her mother had hoped to see her wed had met and wooed a lovely young widow in a whirlwind courtship that had left Society abuzz with gossip and Sybil still unmarried.
Not that she’d have married a gentleman who sought to do so as a matter of familial obligation, or any reason less than love.
Sybil hurriedly tossed the garment around her shoulders and drew the wide hood up over her face. The coarse wool fabric scratched at her cheeks and she winced. A cloak. She made a mental note to have a cloak commissioned for the maid as a Christmastide gift. No young woman should go about in such a miserable material that scoured the skin.
“Please, miss,” Hannah put forth one last appeal.
Reaching down, Sybil gathered the heavy purses from inside her cloak and transferred them over to the borrowed garment. Before her maid had another moment to attempt to sway her from a course she’d no intention of bending on, she pushed the door open.
A cold, noisy wind ripped through the carriage, filling the conveyance with snowflakes. The frigid air sucked the breath from her lungs. Clutching the wool fabric close, Sybil accepted the hand of the hackney driver and allowed him to help her down. Her boots sank into the untouched blanketing of snow. Taking care to keep the hood pulled low over her eyes, she stomped a path forward, along the pavement, up the steps, and then paused on the stoop.
She reached for the knocker and briefly froze. A coiled serpent, with his fangs bared, stared back. She brushed the snow from one of those pointed incisors. What a dreadful way to welcome someone into one’s household. Gentlemen and their love of ominous creatures; serpents, lions, feral creatures. There was no explaining a man. Just another reason she’d never been able to snag the affections and love of a single one of them.
Sybil knocked once. That thump thundered in a winter quiet, broken only by the howl of the wind. And it was with that single rapping that the reality of her plan sank in. Hannah’s warnings, and her own earliest reservations when she’d concocted this scheme. “Do not be a blasted coward,” she whispered under her breath and, fueled by that, she knocked again.
The door suddenly opened and the warmth from within spilled out onto the stoop.
To his credit, the ancient butler, whose hair stood a stark shade whiter than the snow covering the London cobbles, gave no outward shock or surprise at finding a visitor on his doorstep at this hour or during this god-awful weather. “May I help—”
Not allowing the question to be completed, she wordlessly fished out and handed over the card in her pocket. Or rather, Hannah’s pocket.
He collected it in his gnarled, curiously gloveless fingers. She braced for him to slam the door in her face. Instead, he stepped aside and motioned her forward.
Surely it couldn’t be this easy? Not preferring to test the proverbial fates, Sybil hurried inside.
The servant retained possession of her card. “If you’ll await but a moment, Mr. Thomas Thomason?” Did she imagine the smile pulling at the corners of those wizened lips? With that, he shuffled off, leaving her alone in the foyer.
Yes, had she planned on visiting Baron Webb at his residence, she would have come more prepared. At the very least, she would have been more inventive with falsified cards. Her youngest sister, by contrast, would have attended those important details. No doubt, Aria would have even donned breeches and masqueraded as a boy in a showing right from the pages of those silly gothic novels and fairytales her sister adored.
But had they been raised in altogether different planetary spheres, Sybil could not be more different than her wild sister.
As such, Sybil stood here—in a gentleman’s residence—and instead of the expected thrill of elation, panic raged within. She was well educated. By her mother’s great admonishment “too-clever-to-snag-a-husband”, the viscountess hadn’t come to accept what Sybil long ago settled on as fact—there would be no husband. At best, there would be a stolen fortnight of adventure with Baron Webb. Or, that was the grand hope. She chewed at her lower lip. If the gentleman would see her, of course.
“Mr. Thomason?” She jumped, a high-pitched shriek bursting from her lips. Sybil slammed a hand against her chest. Saints in heaven. To have but a fragment of his spryness when she reached her dotage. “His Lordship will see you. If you’ll follow me?”
Repressing the words of thanks that would reveal her cultured and ladylike tones, Sybil nodded. She
allowed him to lead her through the barren halls, concentrating on the monologue she’d prepared for Baron Webb to bring him round to her request.
…I require your assistance… No wait. That was not it.
…Your reputation as a rake precedes you… No. No. She wasn’t looking to either insult the gentleman or stroke his roguish ego.
Sybil drew in a breath. Think of this as a business meeting, orchestrated by you. As such, one you are in complete command of. For, that is all it really was. A transaction. An assignment he’d take on, for a test she’d conduct.
Now came the part of convincing the gentleman he wanted the assignment. All desperate rakes, rogues, and scoundrels could be bought. Or, she was betting on that less than savory opinion of the gentleman.
They reached Baron Webb’s office.
“Mr. Thomas Thomason to see you, my lord.” The servant quickly backed out of the room, drawing the door closed behind him.
Perhaps a more proper miss of tender years would be filled with an equally proper horror at being shut away with one of the most wicked rakes in London. Sybil was a good many birthdays past tender. As such, she was filled with more curiosity than anything else. Peeking out from under her deep hood, she inventoried his empty office. But for a desk, two aged leather chairs, and a well-stocked sideboard, Baron Webb either had minimalistic tastes or had been forced to sell off his possessions. Given the reports in the gossip columns, she’d wager her entire plan on the latter.
“Mr. Thomason,” that sardonic drawl pulled her focus forward. To the man who, if she had her way, would assist her in research that would send the Viscountess Lovell into a legitimate case of the vapors.
With tousled golden curls no gentleman had a right to be in possession of, Baron Webb, from his aquiline nose to rugged jawline, was chiseled masculine perfection suited to sculptures and portraits. A little fluttering unfurled low in her belly. Oh, dear. She’d caught but a handful of glimpses of him through the years at polite ton events, but this meeting, him ten paces away with no other soul present, was much different. The aura of masculine power and strength that surged in waves from his frame robbed her of words.
He arched an elegant golden eyebrow, propelling her into movement. She stalked forward with those bold steps her mother had long lamented, pausing in the center of the room. “My lord,” she returned belatedly.
Making no attempt to rise, the baron reclined in his seat, cradling a tumbler between long fingers. “Well,” he drawled. “As you’ve no intention of issuing anything more than that…I’ve ascertained by your cultured tones and fancy skirts, that you are no servant. As such, I do not know whether to be horrified or curious as to what brings you here, Miss?”
Sybil promptly pushed her hood back. “Cunning,” she supplied.
He grimaced. “Egads. Horrid name.”
Her lips twitched and, with that, some of the dreaded tension in her shoulders slipped from her frame. “Indeed,” she concurred, appreciating his honesty when members of the ton were so bent on politeness they’d lost all hint of realness. “Nearly as bad as Sybil.”
“The Christian name?”
She lifted her head. “The very one.” It did not escape her notice that he did not fail to refute her statement, which would have, no doubt, rankled another lady. He rose all the higher in her estimation for that sincerity. “Though I should point out, it is offset just slightly by my middle, Holly. Alas, my father is quite enamored with botany and always appreciated the name for that very reason.”
“A sprigged prickly evergreen?” he drawled, swirling the contents of his glass. He took another sip.
Sybil wrinkled her nose. Odd, she’d never thought of her name in quite that light. All her fondest memories had been attached to creating and crafting boughs alongside her father in his greenhouse. “Yes, well, I do see your point. However—”
“Miss Sybil Holly Cunning,” he cut in, with a heavy impatience that indicated he’d tired of the banter. “I expect you didn’t intrude on my privacy and risk your reputation and ruin for the sole reason of debating and discussing the origins of your namesake.”
Appreciating that frank candor, she drew in a breath. “My lord, I would like to hire you.”
Chapter 4
There were a good many things wrong with Nolan. His mind, following that bloody fall from his horse. His morals. His declining financial state. There was not, however, a thing wrong with his vision. As such, it had taken but a single glance to ascertain that the unexpected visitor Stephenson had come by with a card from a moment ago, was in no way, shape, or form a Mr. Sir. Or anything of the male persuasion.
What there did appear to be something wrong with, in addition to his lengthy list of flaws—was his hearing. “Beg your pardon?” he blurted.
“Hire you,” she said with a flippant wave of her hand. Uninvited, she came forward.
Hire him? Bitterness soured his mouth. Ah, of course. At last it made sense. She’d come with the hopes he’d debauch her. The curt dismissal died on his lips as the lady unhooked the clasp of her clearly borrowed, low quality cloak. She shrugged out of the offending garment and revealed a plump, perfectly rounded in all the right places frame. One similar to others that had found Nolan in all manner of trouble before. With irate husbands. Jealous protectors.
He swallowed hard as an unwanted wave of lust bolted through him. For though he’d long been a lover of wicked, scandalous widows and wives, he’d never dared set his eyes on a single proper lady.
And yet, there was no mama about, and he looked his fill. Miss Cunning’s—he grimaced—awful name. Sybil’s, he settled for in his silent thoughts, large breasts, strained the fabric of her powder blue satin dress. A dress that clung to flesh, accentuating generous hips that would overfill his hands. An honorable gentleman would have been shamed at admiring and lusting after a lady. Nolan had never been one of those decent sorts. As such, he continued to appreciate her voluptuous form, all the while sipping at his whiskey. Questions raced through his mind. Questions, and concern.
After all, if she were discovered here, she’d be ruined, and he’d be expected to do right by her. Not that he had ever done what was expected of him. Still, he’d rather not have a lady ruined on his doorstep.
Bold as you please, Miss Cunning settled her cloak across one chair and claimed the other. “May I?”
“I believe you already did,” he pointed out. “Let me begin by saying if you are one of those fortune-hunting misses, desperate for a husband, you’d do better than to pick a bounder like me. I’ve got barely two coins to rub together.”
“I know,” she said simply, sitting back in her chair. She layered her arms along the sides of the wing back chair, perfectly at home and in control of herself and his office. “I assure you, I’ve better sense than to seek marriage to you.”
Nolan opened his mouth. And closed it. He tried again. Why, the impudent chit just insulted him.
“I suppose it would not do to insult you given I’ve come on a favor.”
He set his glass aside. “No,” he agreed. She promptly joined her hands together in what he expected was a bid for primness. His lips quirked. There wasn’t a thing prim about his unconventional visitor. “A favor?” So this is why she’d come then. Leaning forward, he pressed his palms along the surface of his desk. “Or something you’d hire me for, Sybil.”
With pearl-white, flawless teeth, she nibbled at her lower lip. Her plump lower lip. “A paid favor,” she amended.
“Ah, yes. The whole ‘I-wish-to-hire-you business’.” He pushed slowly to his feet, and his mystery visitor jumped up. Ah, so she was not as cool and composed as she’d let on. Finding his own legs in that uncertainty, Nolan wandered around the desk. “Tell me, Sybil—”
“Miss Cunning,” she interjected, backing up a step.
“Miss Cunning, who’d ask me for a paid favor?” And oddly, in addition to his lust there was something more—intrigue, for the unconventional spitfire.
Aga
in, she worked at that lower lip, forcing his gaze to that lush flesh. Lips made for wicked acts that involved her dropping to her knees before him and taking him deep inside the warm cavern of her mouth. Desire pounded in his veins. “Very well,” she acquiesced, strolling over to his sideboard. “Sybil, then.” That nonchalance, real or exaggerated, effectively doused his ardor.
He stopped and glanced back. What was she on about?
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “You have permission to use my given name.”
He’d be damned if he showed any hint of it, but a proper miss who’d insist on using those forbidden-by-Society Christian names, had his admiration. “I’m honored.”
She continued over his dry response. “And you are?”
He’d puzzled through his confounded ledgers with a greater ease than speaking to this woman. “I am what?”
The lady emitted one of those endless sighs his beleaguered math instructors at Eton had long ago perfected. “Your name, Lord Webb. Your Christian name.”
Nolan scrubbed a hand over his eyes and cast a quick look over at his forgotten glass. He was foxed. There was nothing else accounting for this maddening, imagined exchange. Alas, the lady, with lips tensing and eyes glinting with annoyance, remained real as ever. “Nolan.”
“Nolan,” she murmured, those two syllables rolling from her lips as though she tasted them and tested them all at the same time. Her brown eyes brightened. “I always believed it sounded a bit like Noel.” He furrowed his brow as she grabbed the very origins of his damned family moniker from the vault of his past. “As in a Christmas Noel,” she elucidated.
“As in you have five minutes before I toss you out on your arse, Miss Cunning.”
“I thought we’d agreed to call one another by—”
“Miss Cunning?” he warned. The last thing he cared to do was circle around a discussion on how they might refer to each other. He’d have her get to the paid favor that brought her here.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 103
