A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2

by Laura Trentham

  “I can’t. I don’t paint or embroider or play the pianoforte. I’ll go round the bend for sure if you don’t allow me to do something. It’s just a bit of tidying. I promise.”

  Mrs. Devlin’s face softened. “Fine. But don’t tax yourself.”

  Minerva clapped her hands and gathered a basket of supplies.

  First, because she couldn’t help herself, she straightened his desk. At least the wood grain was once again visible through the stacks of papers. Then she cleaned a vase with several years of dust layered inside. After filling it with flowers, she rearranged the mantle, making the vase the focal point. She stepped back, tilting her head side to side, and regarded her handiwork. Lovely.

  Originally, she planned to dust around the books, but they were stacked without rhyme or reason. The History of Ancient Greece was between a colorful book of children’s tales and a scientific treatise. Really, it was only logical to reorganize the entire room.

  In the beginning, things went quickly, but as she delved farther into the collection, she became increasingly distracted. The range of subjects was staggering—from collections of Roman philosophers in Latin to the modern literature of Radcliffe and Scott.

  Luncheon came and went. Minerva ate cheese and bread while she flipped through a book about the isle of Capri off the coast of Italy. The illustrations and descriptions of the sea and the quaint whitewashed villages set into cliffs captured her imagination. She had never even contemplated travelling. What with the war and her responsibilities, it had always seemed an impossibility. However, the war would be over one day, and if Simon finally took up the reins of his birth, perhaps someday she could visit this beautiful island.

  A small leather-bound book had fallen behind a row of tall books on the top shelf. Distractedly, she flipped open the cover to catalogue it. The inscription in the front cover had her glancing at the door.

  To Raphael Drummond

  From Uncle Leo and Aunt Betsy

  For your lovely poems

  Raphael. An Archangel? Not sure what to expect, she turned the page. What she found was a lovely poem about autumn at Wintermarsh. It was in a young boy’s handwriting, the bold confidence of his current script not yet realized.

  Touching, charming, funny poems depicting a young boy’s childhood in the country filled the first half. Blank pages disappointed her, but a new grouping of poems began, these written in his familiar, heavy-handed script. They were broodingly dark and full of allegories of war and suffering. Slices of black humor leapt from the page. The beauty of his words stole her breath and brought tears to her eyes.

  Blast. She could not allow herself to feel sorry for the man. He was a brute and uncouth and…she traced the ridges of leather on the cover. There were hidden depths to Rafe Drummond. Reverentially, she laid the book on top of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. It felt right. Even after forcing herself back to the task, she found herself flipping through the small book more than once.

  The afternoon passed in a haze of discovery. Books were stacked hip high around the room, and she was only a quarter finished. She’d cleaned the shelves and dusted the books, but before she moved them back, a book of German folktales translated into English transported her. The magical dark tales were unlike anything she had been allowed to read as a child. She found a warm patch of late-afternoon sun and lay on the rug to continue reading. On her stomach with her legs swinging idly, she was enraptured.

  Sweaty and covered in grime, Rafe ran a hand through damp hair and clapped his hat against his leg, eyes to the ground, his thoughts on Minerva Bellingham. She had snuck into them the entire day.

  Mrs. Devlin fell into step next to him, carrying a basket of apples. “Did Master Simon survive?”

  “He did. Between his broken nose and roiling stomach, it was a testament to his strength of will. Took it like a man. There’s hope for him yet.” He glanced at his former nursemaid. “How did Minerva fare? Did she rest?”

  “She’s not one to loll around feeling sorry for herself.” Admiration laced her voice. “She asked to tidy your study. I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s been neglected of late.” She swallowed audibly.

  She didn’t need to elaborate. He terrified the maids at Wintermarsh. Even young Jenny couldn’t hide her fear. Except for lighting a fire and a hasty cleaning, they avoided him and his lair. Afraid he might jump out and eat them, he supposed, even though he went out of his way to be kind.

  He stepped through the front door and froze. The formerly austere, boring space was lovely and welcoming. Flowers scented the air, their colors lending warmth to the cold, white marble.

  “It’s charming, isn’t it?” Mrs. Devlin asked.

  “I…yes, quite.” His greatcoat hung from the coat stand. Did it carry an echo of her scent? If Mrs. Devlin wouldn’t look at him like he’d gone queer in the attic, he might check. Mentally kicking himself for his mawkish thoughts, he made for his study on cat feet.

  He cracked the door open warily as if Minerva Bellingham might jump out and eat him. Dismay had him pushing the door open and standing in the threshold of his sanctuary. Teetering towers of books covered every table, chair and a good portion of the floor. Squarely in the middle of the chaos, Minerva lay on the floor reading a book, completely unaware of his presence.

  As he’d predicted, her face looked worse, her cheek purpling and her lip swollen. Even so, a smile bloomed as she read. His eyes widened and his mouth went dry when his gaze wandered lower. The bodice of her dress gaped, revealing a sizable portion of her round, full breasts.

  Perhaps he should thank the blackguard for ripping that grey monstrosity. Her bare feet swayed in the air and her dress had bunched at her knees to expose shapely calves and well-turned ankles. Her slippers crowned the tallest stack of books braced against the doorjamb to his right.

  Rafe cleared his throat. Minerva popped up to her knees, covering her legs, looking like a fox ready to run from the dogs.

  “Lord Drummond.” Minerva’s head swiveled left and right as if just recognizing the state of upheaval. “My Lord.”

  Rafe was fairly confident her exclamation was an entreaty to the Almighty and not in deference to his title. He held a hand against his mouth to stem a smile.

  “I realize this looks chaotic, but I’ll set it to rights in no time at all. Really, I will.” She gained her feet and clutched the book to her chest. Turning in a circle, she looked to the floor.

  “Looking for these, mayhap?” Rafe dangled her slippers from two fingers.

  “Yes, thank you.” She weaved her way through the stacks to retrieve them. Their fingers brushed on the exchange, and she snatched the slippers away. His hand drew into a tight fist. Apparently, she could only tolerate him when she was in shock or inebriated.

  Covering his discomfiture, he plucked the book out of her hands, being careful not to accidently touch her. “Grimm’s stories, yes, a recent addition. They’re ostensibly for children, but I found them to be entertaining, bloodthirsty tales.” He wandered over to a still intact shelf and pulled out a careworn book. “This one is full of similar tales from England and Ireland. Did you read them as a child?”

  “Our tutor didn’t allow such books.” He raised his brows, and she shrugged. “We read the classics. The Odyssey was more along the lines of our bedtime stories. During the day, we read history or philosophies.”

  “There’s certainly nothing wrong with a little Homer, but children need their imagination fed. Speaking of which…” He plucked another well-read volume off the closest shelf. Pages had detached from the binding, but he reread it from time to time. “Now this fed many a childhood adventure.”

  She moved a few steps closer, her braid brushing his arm. “Arabian Nights. What’s it about?”

  “Take it and read it.” He handed it to her. “Tales from India and Persia. There are plenty about princesses, but I prefer the ones about pira
tes and swashbuckling heroes.” She ran a finger over the gold-embossed title along the spine, her face downturned.

  “Do you mind?” She gestured vaguely. “I intended to dust, but once I got started I couldn’t seem to stop myself. You have a wonderfully diverse library, Lord Drummond.”

  Rafe took in the disarray but also noted the papers neatly stacked on his desk and the rearranged mantle. More fresh flowers contrasted pleasantly against the heavy, masculine wood. “I don’t mind. And, for God’s sake, will you call me Rafe?”

  “That wouldn’t be at all proper.” She angled her face farther away from him.

  “What about our situation strikes you as proper, Minerva? Using my given name is a drop in the bucket of our impropriety, I’m afraid.” He paused and wished she’d meet his eyes, but only her shiny blonde hair was visible. “Use it in thanks for last night.”

  “Yes, I’m not sure I thanked you properly. So…thank you again.” Holding the book against her chest, she tapped her fingers on the leather. “Did Simon come back with you?” Her words fell out in a torrent of worry.

  She still didn’t trust him? A stab of anger harshened his reply. “Of course he did. Did you presume I’d leave him to toil in the field all night?”

  “I—no, of course not, but you told me we would be punished harshly, and I’ve been wondering what you meant.” Her voice was strained.

  “Look at me, for Christ sake.” She obeyed his coarsely given command immediately. Fear tightened her mouth and eyes, and he hated to think he was the cause. “First of all, I said that Simon would be punished. Forced out of bed for hard physical labor after last night was severe punishment indeed. Secondly, I never said anything about punishing you. You did nothing wrong except protect your brother. I wish you had trusted me, but I well understand why you took matters into your own hands.”

  “I assumed you would want me to suffer as well.” Her matter-of-fact statement shifted him backward a step, and he dropped his gaze for a moment. He hated guilt.

  He forced himself to meet her eyes. “You’ve handled things a sight better than I had anticipated with regards to our agreement. I told Mrs. Devlin to make sure you understood you aren’t required to continue working as a housemaid. Consider yourself my guest. The blue bedroom is yours.”

  “What about Simon? Has he repaid his debt, as well?” A sudden ebullience threaded her voice. In anticipation of their imminent departure? Not bloody likely.

  “Not by half. He still has work to do, and he’ll stay to see it through. You’re welcome to depart for London as you wish.”

  “I can’t leave him here.”

  Rafe’s laugh held no humor. “Of course you can’t. Who knows what evil plans I have in store? As I said, you’re welcome to go or stay as you desire.”

  He whirled away, but a soft touch on his arm stopped him. “Rafe, I didn’t mean to imply you would treat Simon unfairly. In fact, you’ve been more understanding than I had anticipated.”

  His given name on her lips settled warmly in his chest and his ire faded. “Would you care to join me for dinner this evening? We can discuss my plans for your brother, among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “You can tell me all about the books that caught your eye.”

  “If that’s what you wish.” The old uncertainty was in her eyes. She couldn’t quite let herself trust him, and he had no right to ask it of her—yet.

  “I wish,” he whispered.

  * * * * *

  Minerva stood in her new room and smoothed her skirts, stalling. The sage-green silk dress had required help from a giggling Jenny to hook. It was too grand for dinner in the country, but she desperately needed a boost of confidence to face Rafe Drummond across a dinner table. Alone.

  At first, she thought to strong-arm Simon into joining them, but he was sprawled facedown and fully dressed on his bed, snoring to wake the dead. She’d covered him with part of the counterpane and left him to sleep.

  Jenny had been excited to help her dress, feeling none of the awkwardness coursing through Minerva. The maid’s good-natured manner had eventually put her at ease, and she’d even allowed Jenny to dress her hair again. This time, Jenny had managed a loose chignon only poking her half a dozen times with the pins, which had them both laughing. Not the most elegant effort, but a nice change from her braid.

  Waiting until the last possible moment, she shuffled downstairs. Dread and anticipation in equal parts turned her stomach. Rafe was seated at the head of the long oak table reading a London paper. His brow furrowed as if something he read was troublesome, and he traced a finger down his scar.

  Minerva cleared her throat, and his head shot up. He wore a dark jacket and blue striped waistcoat, both fine, well-made articles, but still no neck cloth, leaving his tanned throat exposed. There was only one other place setting to his immediate left.

  His gaze roamed over her, making her legs feel like planks of wood. Finally, as if he had to remind himself to perform the courtesy, he rose, folded the paper and set it aside. They seated themselves, and Minerva fiddled with the napkin in her lap. “Is the news grim?”

  “Much the same. Pardon me for reading. I’ve been taking dinner alone for so long I’ve thrown propriety out the window I’m afraid. Although, to be frank, following the proprieties has never been my strong suit.”

  “Shockingly, I have noticed,” she said dryly. “Don’t you think small polite gestures civilize us as a people?”

  “Not particularly. Society’s little strictures can hide the most depraved, barbaric soul. In fact, it gives men—and women—a way to disguise their true intentions. I’d prefer to look someone in the eye and be able to see what’s behind the polite façade.”

  Considering she never attended a social event without her façade, his words thrummed a chord. “If everyone were so open with their opinions, the average London ballroom would be a mass of wailing women and outraged men.”

  “More interesting than the typical ball, I would guess.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face.

  The footman approached to fill their wine glasses and ladle soup in their bowls. She thanked him by name and the young man blushed and retreated to the kitchen.

  “The ice princess is going to conquer Wintermarsh too, it seems,” Rafe said with an amused shake of his head.

  “Don’t call me that. It’s ridiculous.” The hated moniker clipped her words.

  After taking a measured sip of wine, he half-smiled. “I assumed you were proud of your status in the beau monde as the untouchable paragon. Tell me, why have you never married?”

  Was he trying to goad her into an argument? She took an unladylike gulp of wine. “Why have I never seen you at a London event, my lord?”

  “Have you not? I’ve seen you.” He picked up his spoon and attacked his soup. As the silence lengthened, he cut his gaze to her, masked through his long lashes.

  “When? This season? I’m sure I would have noticed.” She cast around for any memory of him. There was no way the man could enter a room and not garner everyone’s attention—scar or no scar.

  “No, it must have been your first season. You were wearing a white dress and were surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen. But you didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to them. In fact, you looked a bit lonely. I was feeling the same. I suppose that’s why I noticed you. You stood there apart from all the frivolity.”

  The first season had been her worst. She’d received several marriage offers, but the forced socialization had made her curl up in bed and cry nearly every night. She hadn’t yet learned how to flirt superficially, only allowing her suitors to see the very surface of her thoughts. “I was the fox and all those gentlemen were the dogs nipping at my heels. I hated it. Why didn’t you ask for an introduction?”

  “You were innocent and pure and…clean. I had completed half a dozen missions by
then. My life was so far removed from London’s game, it seemed another world to me by then. One I wasn’t fit to enter.”

  A deep emotion—Despair? Regret?—flashed over his face, pulling his brow and the corners of his mouth down. Then it passed, and he dropped his attention to his bowl, making a whirlpool with his spoon.

  At a loss for words, she took two bites, not tasting anything. Finally, she broke the lengthening silence. “You’re the heir to an earldom. You can enter that world at will.”

  He smiled, but his eyes were still troubled. “I’m glad you don’t understand, Minerva. That white frock you wore so beautifully represented everything I had lost, everything I could never get back, yet exactly what I was fighting to protect.”

  Damnable tears pricked. Faking a cough, she surreptitiously pressed them back with her napkin. The footman replaced their soup with roast quail, providing her time to gather herself.

  “You never answered my question. Why have you never married?” The tease in his voice sounded forced. “Surely you’ve had offers. Stonewell would come up to scratch at the snap of your fingers.”

  Shrugging, she fumbled with her knife and hacked at the bird on her plate. “Most gentlemen want a wife who will sit back and provide accolades for their accomplishments while they receive nothing in return but a dress allowance. I enjoy my freedom, and I’ve not met a man who even tempts me to give it up.” No need to mention the fact no one had ever roused her sensibilities. Until him.

  His hum seemed to impart understanding while his large hands gracefully dissected every piece of meat from the many small bones. “You spent the day hip deep in my books—literally. What caught your eye?”

  “Books?”

  He huffed a laugh. “Yes, those large masses of paper with little things called words inside?”

  A giggle sputtered out before she could suppress it. “I found a travelogue from Capri. It looked beautiful. The drawings were breathtaking, but I can’t imagine the colors are real.”

  “They’re quite real. If anything, they’re even more vivid.”