by Bec McMaster
"Especially that."
"Just that easily?" Adele arched a precise brow. Not so long ago, the twitch of said brow would have made him want to clench his jaw. Now all he wanted to do was capture her chin and claim that pretty, impertinent mouth and kiss the hell out of it.
How things had changed.
He felt slightly off-kilter, as if the world had shifted on its axis while he wasn't looking.
"As will you, no doubt?" she murmured, searching his gaze.
"As will I."
It was a lie.
But she clearly believed it, for the light in her eyes died. "As you wish."
Chapter 13
Fury rode her well into the next day.
Adele rose early, and for the first time in days she didn't bother to ask if her husband was at home.
No. He'd be about saving the world and searching for a dangerous blue blood mastermind who wanted to destroy London. And while she respected that he knew the sort of dangers involved, she couldn't help resenting his instructions.
Go home. Forget everything. Be a good little duchess.
For a moment yesterday, when he'd explained what he was involved in, she'd almost felt as though her husband was treating her as an equal.
For a moment she'd hovered on the verge of something more than this weary life.
She'd been ablaze with excitement—until Malloryn quite firmly set her back in her place.
All her life, her father had cursed her for not being born a son—or ignored her as unimportant because she lacked the necessary physical requirements. It wasn't until she turned fourteen and started drawing attention from young men that Sir George Hamilton had begun to realize he had an asset on his hands.
Prized for her beauty, and not her brains. Stuffed and shoved into gasp-inducing corsets, her hair heated into torturous curls, and her manners critiqued at every turn, she'd become his most valued possession.
Her father didn't want to hear what she thought. He wanted her to capture attention. He would point out a young fellow in society and tell her to make her introductions. Adele would smile and flirt, and lead said target back to her father, where suddenly she was forgotten again.
In hindsight, she longed for those days when her father had forgotten her. It might have been better than when he realized what value she truly had. Or her body, rather.
But yesterday, as she'd sat in Malloryn's study, her body aching with the aftermath of all that had occurred, she'd felt something new blossom within her.
He hadn't merely told her to mind her business, or ignored her questions. He'd revealed quite dangerous secrets, and she'd begun to believe he might see some value in her.
And then, the second her heart started beating faster at the thought that she could help, he'd swiftly disabused her of that notion.
She'd been told not to get involved.
She wasn't going to get involved.
But the second Adele finished breakfast, she sent for her writing set and locked herself away in the library.
The SOG had been a group of disgruntled blue bloods longing for a return to the old days, according to Malloryn.
She'd heard them speaking, of course, but she'd never known there was a name for them. Or a group. She'd thought it merely a gathering of fat old windbags who'd whine into their blud-wein about how they weren't allowed to molest and take what they wanted from young society ladies anymore.
Or the many younger blue bloods who had never had a chance to be such predators and resented the stolen opportunities.
"Poor devils," Adele mocked, as her nib moved across the paper and she listed every single lord she'd learned to avoid over the years.
Who were Devoncourt's cronies again?
Not the older blue bloods that'd once been in power, but the younger set that'd been the most dangerous of all. She hadn't liked that about him, but he'd assured her they were harmless.
Or defanged, he'd said, with a wry little smile.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Adele had laughed politely, for she was an expert at playing the game.
She hadn't trusted Devoncourt—she never truly trusted any blue blood—but he'd been polite and charming. And worse, he'd paid her enough attention that she'd begun to think him harmless enough.
He'd even set one or two of his little lickspittles into place when they'd treated her condescendingly.
Now that she knew who he was, she could see right through his ploys.
By the time the morning's sunlight began to brighten into midafternoon, she'd compiled a good four dozen potential SOG members; another dozen or so who were too brainless to be involved, but might have kissed enough boots to be useful; and several dozen other young blue bloods who she was fairly certain weren't involved.
And she'd circled the top five potential ringleaders or influencers.
Malloryn might not want her involved, but perhaps she could help in some small way.
With a sigh, Adele collected her pages and headed for the door. Who was she fooling? Whether he wanted her insight or not, at least she felt like she'd contributed.
As if to spite her, Malloryn was just making his way up the stairs when she strode into the hallway. For a second their eyes locked, and she was right back there in his study in Hardcastle Lane, staring into his eyes as he slowly kissed her.
A rush of heat went through her, and curse her treacherous body, but a shiver of tension curled deep in her abdomen.
"Duke," she said coolly, to cover the reaction.
"Duchess." He paused, his gaze sliding slowly over her. "You look like you've been up to some mischief."
"I wouldn't dare."
"Somehow I find that difficult to believe. You live for such mischief."
The teasing way he said it hearkened back to the flirtation of the previous couple of days.
Adele did not take the bait. "If you'll excuse me, I have matters to see to. You want to find your SOG?" She slammed the pieces of paper against his chest. "Then I suggest you start here. It's a list."
Swishing past him, she summoned the nearest housemaid for her hat and day jacket.
"Where are you going?" Malloryn demanded, following her down the stairs.
"I'm fairly certain I have some jewelry to purchase. Maybe a little mindless giggling on Bond Street with some of my friends? Or if I'm really lucky, a thrilling encounter with the milliner."
"For a second I thought you were referring to your new modiste," he mused. "The one you spoke of the other day."
Adele paused in the entry as the maid slipped her day jacket over her shoulders. Was he referring to—?
He was.
It was as if the yesterday hadn't happened.
Flirt with other men, he'd told her. Make a disparaging comment or two in public. But right here, right now, he was the one flirting with her, as if nothing had changed. As if they could both pretend in private there was something more between them.
She was growing so tired of playing pretend.
Malloryn lounged on the stairs, his hands in his pockets and no sign of the papers she'd given him. His eyes glinted with challenge, but what was the point, really?
"You thought wrong," Adele told him, tipping her chin up. "I canceled my order. It seems there was no point in it. And I thought it was what you would want."
And then she smiled at the maid and accepted her hat as the door opened before her.
Adele did not look back.
It was what he wanted.
But as the door closed behind her, Malloryn realized he was staring at it. And both the maids had noticed.
He tilted his head in recognition to them, then turned and moved toward his library.
Adele's perfume filled the air. It always did. No matter where he went in this damned house, she haunted him.
Slowly, he drew the papers she'd given him out of his waistcoat pocket and smoothed the crumples from them.
The second he started down the list he realized she might just know what she was talking about. There were columns detailing t
he most likely candidates. Little notes decorated each name, scathing indictments of each lord and what they liked to get up to in their spare time.
Lord Higginbotham—liked to bathe in blood to keep his skin youthful for the never-ending stream of handsome young footmen he replaces each month. Is currently being investigated by the Nighthawks for the disappearance of at least two of them.
The Earl of Carstoke— frequently rants about how one used to be able to toss a handful of coin to a girl on the street as repayment and nobody would dare bleat.
Lord Abriel—cannot attain "permanence" without putting his hands around his mistress's throat. Resents the fact bruises upon one's thrall are now frowned upon.
How the hell did she know that?
That Society of Roses project she'd started. It had to be. The girls must all talk, and Adele kept track of everything. If she'd been of a mind to resort to blackmail, she could most likely bring the entire Echelon to its knees. He suddenly wondered just what was discussed in the powder rooms of a ball.
Keeping her out of this was for the best.
But he couldn't help crossing to the window and watching her ascend into the carriage.
She'd surprised him more than once in the last few days.
"Well, that's enough about me. What have you been up to?" Hattie asked, finally running out of things to say.
Making war and then love with my husband. And now it seems we're back to war.
"Nothing in particular," Adele replied, granting her sister the same vapid smile she'd mastered when she was twelve. "Trying to decide what to wear to Lady Haynes's ball."
The distraction worked. Hattie instantly started babbling about her newest silk gown.
Hattie's cheeks had lost their smooth plumpness of youth, and at seventeen, she was starting to truly blossom into a stunning young woman. Adele might have been as vibrant and innocent at that age. She honestly couldn't remember it. Instead, she felt like she'd been cursed with cynicism from the day she was born, her exterior hardened by her first bloodstained glimpse of the world around her.
Adele glanced down into the depths of her hot chocolate.
She wasn't the only one who'd noticed the way Hattie had bloomed. Several blue blood lords had asked Hattie to waltz at the last ball they'd both attended, and she'd seen them circling the young girl like vultures.
Hattie had even begun to mention Lord Seymour's son in the sort of voice that left her slightly breathless.
She didn't, however, mention Lord Corvus.
Adele wondered if that was to spare Adele's feelings, or whether her sister honestly wasn't aware of his lordship's interest in her. Lady Hamilton had been paid more than handsomely this month, which meant she had to hold up her end of the bargain and refuse to let the bastard anywhere near Hattie.
"Oh, look at the time," Hattie suddenly said. "You should have stopped me. I've spent the entire afternoon filling your ears with gossip."
"It's happy gossip. Reminds me of my days as a debutante." Gathering her reticule, she pushed to her feet. "But I should be going. Cook will want my help planning next week's menu."
She kissed Hattie on the cheek, pausing as she saw the shadow watching them.
Sir George Hamilton loomed in the doorway of the parlor like a behemoth, his heavy brow shadowing his eyes. She didn't know how long he'd been there, but she didn't like the way he looked at her.
He was supposed to be out this afternoon. She'd checked with Hattie before she came.
"Father," Adele greeted with a tilt of the head, one adversary to another.
Her father's lips thinned beneath his neatly trimmed moustache. "Fancy seeing you here, Adele." He stepped forward and pressed his dry lips to her forehead, though she knew it was merely for show. He'd given up on her years ago. "I wasn't aware Harriet was meeting you for tea this afternoon."
Interpretation: You're not supposed to meet with your sister. I thought we'd discussed this?
He turned hard eyes on Hattie, who wilted beneath his gaze.
"Blame me," Adele said swiftly, stepping between them so she'd face his ire, and not her sister. "I begged her to let me come."
"She told her mother she had a case of the megrims. Lady Hamilton would never have gone out if she'd known it was a ruse."
"It was my idea."
The muscle in his cheek ticked. "I don't doubt that. Since you're here, you may as well spare me a moment of your time. My study?"
Her smile faltered. "As you wish."
Hattie followed them to the door, and Adele squeezed her hand to assuage her sister's nerves. Everything will be okay. Sir George couldn't hurt her anymore, but Adele could still feel her sister's stare between her shoulder blades at every step along the staircase to the second level.
Sir George wasted no time.
The second the door to his study shut behind her, he turned on his heel abruptly. "Your mother tells me you disapprove of Lord Corvus's intentions toward your sister. You are not to meddle."
I daresay Lady Hamilton forgot to mention the part where I pay her two hundred pounds a month to keep his lordship's paws off my sister.
Dealing with Sir George was another matter.
"Corvus is only circling Hattie like a vulture because he knows how much it gets under my skin," Adele hissed. "You're the one who wants to throw her to the wolves. Do you possibly imagine he is interested in a match with her? He'll ruin her."
"This vendetta you have against him—"
"Vendetta?" Her voice rose. "How dare you?"
"It cost me a great deal to keep Corvus off my back after your little incident," he warned. "If you upset him again—"
"If I upset him?" She couldn't restrain the heat in her voice.
"You drew his blood."
"He deserved it." Adele turned in a whirl of skirts, pacing to the window. "And if you think I shall ever forget how you made me apologize to him, then you should think again."
Of all the indignities she'd suffered under this roof, apologizing to her erstwhile attacker was the worst.
"Lord Corvus is a powerful man—"
"So is my husband." She wasn't above throwing Malloryn's name around when it came to riling her father. "I don't think he'd approve of your machinations with Hattie if I told him the truth."
Sir George's face mottled. "Your husband wouldn't give a damn. Do you think I am unaware of his lack of concern when it comes to his wife? Rumors abound, my dear, of how your husband avoids any balls you attend."
Adele steeled herself. "Malloryn is too busy with matters of the realm to attend most of the Echelon's balls. But of course rumors abound. Of course it's my fault. You probably started them yourself."
"The last thing I want to do is bring more attention to you and this household," Sir George yelled. "You dishonored this house once, and I will not have you bringing the murk of your past back into the light."
"How was marrying the duke a dishonor? No member of this household has ever striven so high!"
"High?" His voice raised several octaves. "Malloryn's a traitor to his class. He ought to hang."
"I'd be careful how loudly you say those words, Father," she replied coldly. "Because they smack of treason."
A sharp rap came at the door, cutting the tension between them.
Visibly seething, Sir George turned to the footman at the door. "What is it?"
"There's a messenger here, sir. You wanted to be alerted immediately the second he arrived."
Sir George cut her a sharp look. "We are not done yet. Stay here and don't touch anything. I need to see to this."
"I think I've heard enough, thank you very much." She gathered her skirts.
"Well, I haven't finished talking. Lord Corvus and I have come to an agreement, and you will abide by it."
Adele froze. "What kind of agreement?"
Sir George bared his teeth in a smile as he strode toward the door. "As I said, stay here. And you will find out."
Chapter 14
An agreeme
nt with Lord Corvus....
If Sir George had dared make a rash decision over Hattie's fate, Adele was going to kill him. She hastily rifled through the papers on his desk, trying to find some sort of letter or document pertaining to Corvus.
Damn it. Nothing.
Adele turned, her fingertips pressed to her temples, when she saw the fireplace.
And her breath caught as she saw something she'd never truly noticed before.
There, right in the heart of her father's study, was the rising sun emblem of the SOG—according to Malloryn.
Every inch of her stiffened.
"Malloryn's a traitor to his class."
Why had she not seen it?
Oh, she'd known Sir George despised her husband, but he was careful about the sorts of opinions he allowed to grace public air. She hadn't even bothered to put his name on the list she'd given her husband.
But what if he was an SOG sympathizer?
Creeping closer, she pressed her fingers to the sun embossed in the black steel of the fireplace like a fleur-de-lis. The emblem depressed into the setting, and the fireplace groaned.
Drawing her hand to her chest sharply, Adele took a step back.
Had the fireplace moved?
Reaching out, she pushed it, and the fireplace began to turn, revealing a small hidden room behind it. Gray light streamed through a dirty window, highlighting a battered old desk and several shelves covered in heavy, leather-bound volumes and sundry other items. A mechanical ship held pride of place on the desk and she knew if she looked closer, she'd see HMS Hamilton engraved on the tiny nameplate.
Sir George had earned a knighthood from the prince consort for designing a new type of recurring mounted gun to be used by naval forces, one year before the prince consort was overthrown. She'd never understood it. Many other manufacturers designed important things, but her father had been granted a title for it.
If there was any memory Sir George worshipped, it was that of the moment he'd been raised into the Echelon. No longer a mere second son of a second son of some poorer House, far from the grace of the ruling duke, but a titled man himself.
