Fallon cringed.
Easing the bucket down, the girl sent a reproachful glance up the looming stairs. Her lips pulled into a pretty pout. “It’s all those dreadful steps.” Placing both hands on her hips, she stretched, straining her breasts against the front of her dress.
Fallon stifled a snort. She had known girls like Nancy all her life—those who used their wiles to entice others to do their work. Fallon never dared. Sooner or later payment was expected. Either young Nancy was too naïve to know that or she was willing to deliver when the time came.
Swallowing down an epithet, Fallon stepped forward and took the bucket, committed to playing her part to the fullest, even if it meant breaking her back. “Allow me.”
Nancy clapped her hands before her considerable bosom. “Oh, I couldn’t let you—”
Dipping her head, Fallon rolled her eyes where Nancy could not see. “I insist. It’s much too heavy for you.”
“Oh, what a gentleman,” Nancy gushed. Stepping forward, she squeezed Fallon’s arm, her hand lingering.
“Where shall I take this?”
“The master’s rooms. I’m responsible for supplying fresh coal there twice daily.”
Fallon nodded, hoping that Nancy did not expect her to carry a bucket upstairs for her twice every day.
Tossing a weak smile at the girl, Fallon headed up the steps with the bucket. She walked carefully down the corridor, mindful not to spill any coals on the rich, gold-threaded runner. At the master’s door, she knocked briskly. She had worked in the kitchens, running errands for Cook most of the morning and did not know whether the duke was in residence. Rapping again, she waited several moments more. No response. Slowly, she opened the door and stepped within the shadowed chamber. The hush of the room struck her as almost reverent, almost as though she stepped inside a church’s hallowed interior. Absurd considering the man who occupied the space doubtlessly conducted all manner of vice within its walls.
With the drapes drawn, it might well have been midnight. Only a bare slit of light crept from between the drapes. Red and orange embers glowed from the grate and she hastened in that direction, feeling very much an intruder.
She scanned the dark and musty chamber as she walked—the veritable lion’s den. Only the lion was out, she reassured herself. A massive four-poster with a rumpled white coverlet sat against one wall. She blinked and stopped at the sight of it. White? Virginal and pure as a dove’s breast. Somehow she expected the demon duke to sleep shrouded in scarlet sheets. Or black. She could well envision him there. The wicked handsome beast of a man at love play with one of his many paramours. A tightness grew in the center of her chest at the thought.
Thanks to him, she possessed a fairly good idea of what that entailed. At least at the beginning. In her mind, she saw that broad hand lifting a breast toward his lips, holding it, squeezing. Unfortunately, in her mind that breast resembled hers. Stinging heat crept up her neck. Her belly clenched, twisted. She pressed a hand against her stomach.
She shifted her gaze from the imposing bed…and shoved the image of the demon duke tangled amid those sheets—with her—from her head.
Strange that no one had tidied the bed yet. The chamber’s furnishings, while appropriately opulent for the bedchamber of a duke, seemed at odds with the duke himself. While it was exactly the type of bedchamber she imagined a highborn lord to occupy, it wasn’t him. He did not adorn himself richly as a duke of the realm might, but rather—when he wore clothes at all—attired himself simply. A dark jacket. A vest and cravat of abstemious black. No personal belongings littered the opulent chamber. It struck her as a mere domicile. Simply a place to sleep. Nothing more. Not even a home.
A large mahogany desk loomed like a beast before the French doors leading to the balcony. She somehow suspected he rarely sat behind its mammoth proportions. That would hint at an industrious side to the duke. Smiling ruefully, she crouched before the grate and opened its door. Likely the only thing he worked hard at was waging sin.
Resting a hand on her knee—and relishing the freedom of movement her breeches offered—she dug a shovel into the coals, adding several into the smoldering grate.
“What the devil is that racket?”
She dropped the shovel into the bucket with a clatter, her hand flying to her throat at the sudden rough voice. Whirling around, she watched in horror as the rumpled bed began to shift and move like a great beast emerging from a snowdrift. A dark head appeared, popping up amid the pile of bedding. Her mouth dried. Her throat tightened. No.
With one arm wrapped around a plump pillow, he rose on an elbow, blinking and scratching his head. Tousled dark hair flew in every direction before falling to his shoulders. His scaled serpent tattoo rippled with the movement of his muscled shoulder, almost as though it lived and breathed there on his flesh. Her mouth dried and watered invariably. She fought to swallow past the sudden thickness of her throat. His body more resembled a young laborer of the field than a lily-handed nobleman. And that tattoo…it belonged on a wicked pirate.
He blinked several more times before his gaze found her crouched before the grate. Her fingers grew numb where they clutched the bucket handle.
“What are you doing in here?” The deep throaty sound of his voice puckered her skin to gooseflesh. “I told Diddlesworth I was not to be disturbed.”
She closed her mouth and rose to her feet, the glare from those hooded eyes making her stomach quiver. “Begging your pardon.” She stopped herself just short of curtseying. Sketching a brief bow, she urged the butterflies in her belly to quell. “Forgive me. I was told your chamber requires coal.” She motioned behind her. “And I did knock.”
“Did you?” Yawning, he sat up, the white counterpane pooling around his waist, revealing his bare torso and skin far too bronzed…far too muscled. At least for her notions of a lazy, self-indulgent lord. The fingers of her free hand twitched in reflex, tempted to touch, to caress despite her dislike of him and all he was. Despite that she was supposed to be immune to men such as he.
“Fred, is it?” he gazed at her through bleary eyes.
Just as she thought. A footman was scarcely noticeable. Hardly memorable, it would seem, even after his earlier chastisement.
“Francis,” she replied after some delay, swallowing and trying to bring moisture to her dry mouth.
“Ah, Frank.”
She parted her lips to correct him and then stopped. Frank. Francis. What did it matter? As she had witnessed with his valet, he appeared fond of distorting names.
He dragged a hand through the thick fall of his hair. The dark locks fell back in place like a silken curtain, framing the strong planes of his cheeks. The ends swayed rhythmically above his shoulders, mesmerizing her. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I rarely rise before noon.”
Of course. Like most idle lords who spent a night carousing. Worthless, the lot of them. Him included. “Yes, Your Grace, it won’t happen again.”
He dropped back down in the mound of white, rolling onto his side and dismissing her. Tearing her gaze from the broad expanse of his back, she hastened toward the door, lugging her bucket and vowing never again to visit his lordship’s room. No matter how Nancy wheedled. Her feet moved quickly over the plush carpet. The sound of his sigh as he settled back into sleep carried from the big bed. It reverberated through her and she shivered, her hand trembling around the bucket’s handle. Never again indeed.
Chapter 7
F allon rounded the lane, panting for breath and hoping she was not too late, that Marguerite still waited at their designated bench in the park. She patted her bonnet to make certain it was still in place, covering most of her head. She had managed to pin back the short tendrils of hair, even though it took every pin in her possession to tame the shorn waves.
Fortunately, Marguerite waited at their usual bench, poised primly and looking out at the pond. Her bonnet framed her face becomingly, dark wisps of hair edging her face. Her expression came alive when she spied Fallon.
&
nbsp; “I was afraid you weren’t coming,” Marguerite said as Fallon plopped down beside her. She set her bag down near her feet. Inside were the garments she would change back into before entering the duke’s house.
“I had some trouble getting away.” In truth, it took longer than planned to find a water closet outside the duke’s residence for her to change clothing.
“Your note said you found a new position, but nothing more. I’ve been beside myself with worry for days.” Marguerite frowned. “What happened to your post with Mrs. Jamison?”
“The usual.”
“Oh, Fallon,” Marguerite muttered, her tone half pity half aggravation. Not so very different from Evie’s response.
Petite and pretty as a fragile China doll Fallon once admired in a shop window, Marguerite was undoubtedly the most delicate creature to ever emerge from Penwich. Yet she never faced the difficulties Fallon had when it came to keeping a post. With her flair at the healing arts, she was a coveted commodity. As a sick nurse, she moved from household to household about the ton, her presence valued and respected. Employers treated her only with courtesy.
“Nothing to fret over,” Fallon quickly reassured. Although Marguerite and Evie had come to her rescue all those years ago at school, Fallon loathed to think that they still felt her some pathetic creature in need of saving. “I’ve handled things.”
“Have you now?” Marguerite arched a dark eyebrow, her whiskey brown eyes aglow.
“I’ve found a better position with the Duke of Damon.”
Marguerite’s gold-brown eyes widened. “You mean the demon duke? Surely you jest?”
Her stomach twisted at the designation. She smiled, her lips shaky. “You’ve heard of him, then?” It made sense. Marguerite moved in higher circles than Fallon.
“That he’s recently returned to Town, yes, and that he’s an utter bounder? Yes, I’ve heard that, too. I’ve also heard that his reputation rivals that of his father…” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, “shot dead in a duel by a jealous husband. It’s said no woman was safe from him, and he preferred married ladies—the greater conquest and all that. Are you sure you’re safe working for such a man?”
“You heard that much?”
She shrugged. “Lady Danford has me read her the gossip pages before I administer her treatments. It appears to relax her.”
“I’ll be safe.”
Marguerite shook her head, ever the pragmatist. Always, at Penwich, she had been the careful one. The one least likely to get into trouble. “How can you be certain?”
Fallon dropped her attention to the frayed edge of her cloak, playing it between her fingers. Over the distant rise geese honked as children pelted them rather fiercely with bits of bread. Marguerite, she feared, would never understand or approve of her subterfuge.
Sucking in a breath, she confessed, “He doesn’t know I’m a female.”
“What?”
Fallon lifted her head. “He doesn’t know I’m a woman.”
Marguerite’s eyes flicked over her. “I don’t understand.”
“He sees what I present him.” She moistened her lips, bracing herself for Marguerite’s censure. “And what I’ve shown him thus far is a man.”
“A man?” Marguerite uttered the word as if she had never heard it before. For long moments she simply stared at Fallon in mute confusion.
Fallon kicked the bag near her feet. “I’ve become Francis.”
Marguerite looked down at the bag. Gesturing to it, she asked, “What is in there?”
“Clothing.” She grimaced, reluctantly confessing, “My footman’s livery.”
Marguerite pressed a hand to her heart as though it threatened to gallop free of her chest. “Why?”
Fallon smoothed her hands over her wool skirts. “I think my reasons should be obvious. For two years we’ve met nearly every week at this park bench.” She waved a hand around them. “You know all I’ve gone through.”
“But you never even hinted that you were considering this! Isn’t it a tad…extreme?”
“You remember when we were at Penwich?”
Some of the light diminished from Marguerite’s eyes. She may not have gotten into trouble like Fallon and Evie, but her time at Penwich had been no less difficult. As petite as she was, she was a target among the bigger girls. Fallon and Evie could not look out for her every moment of the day. Marguerite had been bullied, her food stolen. Sick from malnourishment and susceptible to disease, she had spent a great deal of time in the infirmary—no doubt where her interest in the healing arts began. At times, Fallon feared she would perish like so many other Penwich girls.
Fallon swallowed against the lump in her throat. “We did whatever we had to in order to survive. All of us.”
“I remember,” she intoned, her voice soft, subdued as her mind doubtlessly traveled the dark roads of their past, of the girls they used to be, struggling for life. “And when your deception is revealed?” Her gold-brown eyes locked on Fallon. “What then? They could arrest you…perhaps even commit you to an asylum. They will say you are a sick woman…unhinged.”
“I’m simply pretending to be a footman. I’m not impersonating Prince Albert. Besides.” She adopted a cheeky grin. “Who says I shall be caught? I’m tall enough. I’ve never been the delicate, petite sort.” She scanned Marguerite almost enviously. “Not like you.”
“Not delicate, true, but you’re all woman.” Marguerite assessed her. “From everything I’ve heard of this duke, he’s a connoisseur of womanhood. He’ll sniff you out. Mark my words. You will be caught.”
“He hasn’t yet. In fact, he warned me against flirting with the women on his staff.”
“What?” The word strangled on laughter. Marguerite shook her head, the thick sausage curl on her shoulder dancing, glinting blue-black as it caught the sunlight.
Fallon waved a hand in dismissal. “Enough of me. I want to hear about you.” Anything to distract, to ease her attention from the voice whispering across her mind, insisting that Marguerite was right, that it was only a matter of time. He’ll sniff you out.
A tremor skittered up her spine, and she couldn’t be quite certain if was fear or excitement.
Fallon rose and stepped aside as a carriage pulled up in front of the townhouse, the horse’s clattering hooves slowing to a stop. Setting aside the oil canister she had been using to grease the creaky iron gate, she clicked her heels together and opened the gate for the visitor, curious to see who would descend from the carriage. Another lady—for lack of a better word—calling on the duke?
A footman dropped down from his perch to open the carriage door, and a dignified-looking gentleman in black broadcloth stepped down. Tall and thin, he raked a haughty stare over the house, nostrils quivering as if he smelled something foul from within.
Using a brass-headed cane, he strode ahead at a firm clip, not sparing her a glance where she stood. Almost as if she did not exist. As if she were merely a statue holding the gate open for him. But then that was the rule of thumb with servants. The more unnoticeable, the better. Dipping her head, she smiled in satisfaction, watching the caller covertly as she did.
A curious feeling of unease settled in her stomach as he rapped on the front door, the line of his back ramrod straight, inflexible, reminiscent of another lord. One who had never cared if his requests were an imposition on others. Viscount Hunt. Unreasonable or not, the viscount expected Da to do whatever he asked. Da was simply O’Rourke. Not a person. Not a man. Not a father struggling to provide for his daughter, striving to give her a home, to be everything for his motherless child.
Shaking off bitter thoughts of the man who drove her father to an early grave, she shut the gate. The stranger rapped on the knocker. He removed his hat, revealing a head full of lush white hair. Acrimony radiated from him, and she suspected this caller bore no love for the duke. A footman opened the front door. The gentleman swept inside without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.
She sta
red after him for some moments, curious despite herself. Why should she care if he bore no love for the duke?
It wasn’t as though she had taken Mr. Adams words to heart and adopted a sense of loyalty for her employer. It wasn’t as though his naked torso flashed through her head at night. Alone in her room, when she closed her eyes, his voice did not roll through her head, filling her ears with his heated promise. I can bring you pleasure. That, she swore, cheeks itchy hot, simply never ever happened.
Chapter 8
“W ake up, you forsaken sodomite!”
Dominic pulled a pillow over his head, telling himself the harsh voice that invaded his head was only a nightmare. The voice could not be real. Could not be here. And yet even as he told himself this, Dominic knew that the old man could be standing in his bedchamber—that he would. Rupert Collins’s letters had chased him across two continents. Discovering his grandson was on English soil again, he wouldn’t wait for an invitation.
The end of a cane landed on the bed, dangerously close to Dominic’s side. The bed dipped and shuddered as his grandfather gave it a shake. “I said up with you!”
Groaning, he pulled back the pillow and leveled a glare on the one man he had never wanted to see again. And yet he had known when he returned to England that he would have to face the bastard again. Sooner or later. His grandfather would make certain of it.
The tip of his cane dug into the mattress, the cold polished wood scraping his ribs. “Up with you.” At that moment, his aged eyes fell on Dominic’s tattoo. He pointed a shaking finger at it. His voice quavered, “You bear Satan’s symbol?”
Dominic glanced at the tattoo. “What? This?”
“It symbolizes evil.”
His lips twisted. “Fitting I should wear it, then.”
His grandfather’s wrinkled lips disappeared into his mouth. He was a shadow of his former self. His once brawny frame no longer the intimidating figure of Dominic’s youth.
Dominic knocked the cane off the bed with the back of his hand and settled against the pillows with an exaggerated sigh. “So. You’re still alive.”
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