When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 6

  Johnson tapped at a door and then opened it. “Mr. Hawthorne, Your Grace.”

  Windemere looked up from a plate piled with smoked fish, ham, and eggs, and gestured with his knife. “Leave us.”

  The butler silently shut the door.

  Windemere sat back in his chair. “Think you pulled one over on me, do you? Stealing my niece away.”

  Gideon didn’t let an eyelash flicker. “No, Your Grace. My wife was merely eager to inspect her new home.” He added smoothly, “I’m sorry that in her excitement we forgot to bid you farewell.”

  The duke grunted ill-humoredly and attacked the fish with his knife and fork.

  Gideon wondered how many times he’d stood like this in front of the duke, waiting for orders, watching him gobble a meal. A hundred times? Two hundred?

  Past any man’s endurance, in any case.

  “Well?” the duke finally barked, as if Gideon were the one holding up the discussion.

  “I wanted to discuss our pact.”

  “Eager for her dowry, are you?”

  Of course he was. He needed that money to make his way into society. Gideon merely nodded.

  The duke ate the rest of his fish.

  Gideon made sure to show no impatience. That would only reward the old man.

  Windemere finally rose and walked to a tall desk against the wall. He took a key from a chain on his watch and unlocked the desk to take out a legal paper. “I’ve caused half of the moneys to be placed in a separate account. When you’ve finished the job I’ll put the remainder of the dowry in the account and hand it over. Until you do, all the money is still in my hands.”

  He slid the document across the table he’d eaten his breakfast on.

  Gideon picked it up, not bothering to read it. This wasn’t unexpected, but it still made him angry.

  He looked from the document to the old man, his eyes narrowed. “What shall I live on until then? How shall I keep your niece?”

  The duke reseated himself and folded his hands on his belly. “I know you’ve a nice bit of coin saved. You’ll do quite well.”

  All true, though it didn’t make Gideon any happier. The duke had implied that he’d turn over a portion of the dowry once they’d wed.

  Gideon had promised Messalina her money in a month. He had to fulfill the duke’s wishes before then.

  Gideon took a calming breath. “What can I do for you, Your Grace?”

  The grin that spread across the duke’s face was unsettling. “I want you to kill my heir, Julian Greycourt.”

  Chapter Four

  The tinker followed the light until he came to a small clearing carpeted in wild thyme. Sitting there was a cottage. The walls were made of honeysuckle and sweetbriar and the roof was a mass of violets and oxlips. Lounging before the cottage was a great red fox, smoking a clay pipe.…

  —From Bet and the Fox

  Late that afternoon Messalina stood in Whispers’ cavernous library and tried not to look as appalled as she felt.

  Along the walls lovely oak shelves reached nearly to the ceiling—entirely empty. “How can a library be a library without books?”

  Reggie, who was their guide to the house, shrugged. “The guv ’asn’t much use for books.”

  “Of course he hasn’t,” Messalina said bitterly. “He’s a Philistine as well as a bully to small children.”

  Reggie was an enormous man with a heavy brow and thick lips. Despite his rather alarming appearance he was remarkably cheerful. Now, though, he wrinkled his great forehead. “Ma’am?”

  Bartlett glanced up from the small notebook where she was keeping a list of the things that needed attending to. “Mr. Hawthorne disciplined a boy this morning. He was named Sam, I think?”

  Reggie’s brow cleared. “Oh, aye. Sam is one of Pea’s lot. What was the guv ’auling the lad over the coals for?”

  “Thieving,” Bartlett said.

  Reggie winced. “The guv is right strict-like when it comes to anyone stealing ’is things.”

  “Of course he is.”

  She knew what Hawthorne was. Why was she so appalled by his cruelty? Had she really imagined that the man was anything other than a savage? She remembered his fingers brushing her face as he’d pushed her hair behind her ear. How could the same man have terrified a little boy only minutes before?

  She kept seeing Sam straightening his shoulders. Trying to look tough when he was only a small boy. If she could but help him somehow.

  No. She must stick with her plan of fleeing this house.

  Which reminded her. She glanced at Bartlett. “Let me see your notes.”

  The lady’s maid handed over the little book.

  Messalina ran her eye over the precise handwriting without really seeing it. She nodded as if in approval.

  “This is very good. Let me just note a few books I’d like to bring here.” She took the pencil and wrote at the bottom of the list, “Were you able to send the letter?”

  Smiling, she handed the notebook back to Bartlett.

  The maid glanced at the notebook and nodded. “A very good suggestion, ma’am. Why, just this afternoon I sent a boy to inquire about one of your favorite books, The Gloom of Harlowe Hall.”

  “Did you?” Messalina raised her eyebrow at the rather imaginative title.

  “Yes, indeed,” Bartlett said sturdily.

  Messalina smiled. “I look forward to his return, then. But I’d like to finish touring the house first.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Reggie replied. “Erm. This way.”

  He led them out into the passage at the top of the staircase and down a hall to another room. Reggie opened the door and said proudly, “The music room.”

  Messalina entered and glanced around. The small room was pleasingly proportioned and painted a soothing lavender, but it held only a single chair, sitting in the center of the room.

  She turned to Reggie and asked carefully, “Why is this called the music room?”

  Reggie seemed stumped for a moment before he said, “’Cause this is where music is played.”

  “And yet…” Messalina waved to the instrument-less room and then sighed. “Tell me, how long has Mr. Hawthorne been living at Whispers House?”

  Once again Reggie’s brow folded into deep wrinkles as he consulted the ceiling for an answer. “Must be nigh on five months now? Aye, that’s right, cause ’e took it in payment for Lord Spinnet’s debt to ’im.” He smiled happily at Messalina. “Spinnet wouldn’t give th’ house up until the guv threatened to break both ’is nose and…” Reggie suddenly seemed to become aware of what he was saying. “That is…the guv’s been living ’ere ’bout five months. Ma’am.”

  Messalina wrinkled her nose distastefully. “Naturally he did. Does the guv frequently resort to violence to get his way?”

  Reggie tilted his head and said gently, “Sometimes ’e does. When ’e works for th’ duke or when ’e’s collecting on the debts others owe ’im.”

  “He’s a moneylender?” She asked in as neutral a voice as possible. Reggie was obviously loyal to Hawthorne.

  “That’s some of what th’ guv does,” the big man said, leading them down the stairs. “But not all.”

  “What else does he do?” she asked before she could contain her curiosity.

  “’E ’as a proper business now,” Reggie said with pride. “Lets others do the rough work if there’s need.”

  “Indeed?” Somehow she was doubtful that Hawthorne no longer did the rough work. “What is his business?”

  “Oh, it’s somethin’ way up north,” Reggie replied vaguely. “I don’t have any ’and in that.”

  “Then what do you do for my husband?”

  Reggie smiled benevolently down at her. “Oh, anything the guv wants.”

  Messalina sighed. Obviously she’d get no straight answers from Reggie. “I’m afraid I’ve lost our subject: the state of the house. Have you shown me all the rooms?”

  The big man screwed up his face, squinting. “There’s
the top floor—attics and servants’ quarters—and the lower with the kitchens and storerooms, but I’m supposin’ you’re not that interested ’bout those?”

  Messalina rather wished that were the case. She glanced at Bartlett.

  The maid looked apologetic. “Best you see for yourself, ma’am.”

  “I suppose I should if we’re ever to have a decent meal,” Messalina muttered. Lunch had been more bread and butter and the regrettable tea. “Very well. Reggie, if you’d show us the way?”

  They tramped along a corridor to the back of the house where the kitchens lay. Messalina frowned as she paused at a door she didn’t remember seeing before. “Good Lord, this house is a maze. What room is this?”

  She reached for the doorknob but was stopped by a male voice.

  “Don’t.”

  The word was growled from behind her, and Messalina turned to meet Hawthorne’s demonic gaze.

  Her pulse leaped nervously at the sight of him. How had he sneaked up behind them in the passageway?

  “That room is mine,” her husband said. “You do not have my permission to enter it.”

  She stiffened, hurt at his brusque tone. “If that is what you wish.”

  “It is.” His glance at Reggie was unfriendly, and the big man shuffled his feet as if he’d been caught out in some wrong. “I’m surprised that Reggie brought you here—he’s supposed to be guarding you, not serving as tour guide.”

  Reggie went a deep red. “Won’t ’appen again, guv.”

  “No, it won’t,” Hawthorne replied. “Off with you.” He nodded to Bartlett. “And you.”

  Bartlett bobbed a curtsy and handed her notebook over to Messalina before leaving.

  Messalina waited, lips pursed, the notebook clenched in her hand, until both servants were out of earshot before saying, “Do you plan to keep me locked up forever?”

  His wicked eyebrows winged up as he took her arm. “Locked up? What are you talking about?”

  “You set Reggie to guard me,” Messalina replied sweetly.

  He shook his head as he guided her back down the hall. “Reggie isn’t here to keep you from leaving Whispers. He’s here to keep you from harm.”

  Messalina let him take her to the main staircase. “What sort of harm?”

  “Your uncle, for one,” he said as they mounted the stairs.

  She glanced at him swiftly. His upper lip was curled in a sneer.

  “My uncle has already married me off,” she said slowly. “What else could he do to me?”

  “I have no idea,” Hawthorne said grimly. “That’s what worries me. You’re my wife now. I’ll not let him set one finger on you.”

  She eyed him with surprise. “You don’t like him.”

  “I’ve worked for him for over a decade.” He slanted an ironic look at her. “Did you think I had any fondness for him?”

  “Well, no,” she said, thinking it over. “But you’ve stayed with him.”

  He halted on the upper hall, watching her almost with pity. “It’s not easy to leave the employ of the rich and powerful.”

  She lifted her chin. “You don’t consider yourself powerful?”

  His grin was quick and dangerous as he stepped closer to her. “Oh, I can make a man piss himself with fright, have no doubt, but is that really the same as your uncle manipulating Parliament?”

  She pursed her lips. “No. You’re quite right.”

  His eyebrows winged up as if he were surprised she’d agreed. His black eyes were suddenly intent as he watched her.

  “Never forget,” he said softly. “No matter the duke’s power, I will keep you safe. You are…important to me.”

  Her lips parted as her heart gave a silly jolt.

  Then she came to her senses. “My money is important to you, you mean.”

  “No, I meant what I said. You…” He touched the bottom of her chin with his fingertips, a line between his wicked eyes almost as if he were puzzled. “I can’t look away from you. Your bravery, your pride, the desire that sometimes whirls in your eyes.” His nostrils flared as if he were inhaling her. “The way you laugh—from your belly, unrestrained. With all your heart. No matter how I try, my gaze returns to you. Always you.”

  She couldn’t breathe. His words sounded as if they’d been drawn from the very depths of his being. All thought fled. He was dangerous. Dangerous and evil.

  Yet she still felt his pull.

  “You must be lying,” she whispered desperately.

  “I am not.”

  She closed her eyes so that she could no longer see his lips, his wicked eyebrows, and those damned black eyes.

  But she couldn’t shut out his voice, low and rasping. “Messalina.”

  “No.” She raised her eyelids. “We agreed on waiting for—”

  “Bedplay,” he interrupted. “I’m not talking about that.” He sighed. “Come. Let’s eat supper.”

  She nodded at once. Placing a table between him and her was a very good idea indeed.

  He bowed, waving his hand toward what must be the dining room. Inside was a small table by the fireplace set with various dishes.

  Messalina stopped short. “Where did this all come from?”

  “A very mysterious place,” he murmured as he pulled out a chair for her. “It’s called the kitchen.”

  Well, she supposed she deserved that.

  Messalina sat in the chair, very conscious of Hawthorne standing behind her. For a moment she could’ve sworn she felt his breath on her neck.

  She shivered.

  But he was already seating himself to her left at the head of the table.

  She carefully set the little notebook on the table. “You do have a cook.”

  “Mm.” He cut into one of the pies. “Yes.”

  She scoffed. “A cook seems so ordinary.”

  “Does it?” His look was ironic. “I hired him for you.”

  “Oh.” She flushed. “But when?”

  “Before I went north to fetch you.” He thumped a plate down in front of her. It was filled with a gently steaming savory pie. “Naturally I prepared for when you’d be my wife.”

  She shivered. That he’d done this when she was still at a house party, innocently unaware that he was laying the ground to marry her, was…disconcerting.

  She swallowed and found a different subject. “I was beginning to wonder if your cook could bake.”

  “Why?” Hawthorne poured the wine.

  “Because we’ve only had bread and butter all day.”

  “What?” Hawthorne looked up at that, frowning.

  Was she about to get the cook in trouble? She certainly didn’t want that.

  She replied more carefully, “Bread, butter, and some tea.”

  “I’ll talk to the cook,” Hawthorne said, and then grudgingly, “He worked in a tavern before I hired him. I doubt he’s ever made a breakfast or luncheon for a lady.”

  She knitted her brow. “Why not hire a properly trained cook? Surely that would be easier than trying to instruct a—a barkeep?”

  He glanced at her as he passed her a glass of wine. “Easier, yes. But I think my barkeep cook will learn well enough, given time. Besides, hiring a society-approved cook would be more expensive.”

  “Even with my dowry?” she asked pointedly.

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “I have better uses for your dowry than hiring an expensive cook.”

  Yet Hawthorne wanted to enter London society, she mused. Did he not know that in order to receive invitations he also had to invite people to his house?

  But why would he? Hawthorne might lurk on the fringes of the aristocracy, but he wasn’t one of them. He’d never moved in their social circles. He was trying to enter a foreign land without learning the language. Strange to think that a man otherwise so capable—so arrogantly sure of himself—might have this one Achilles heel.

  She watched Hawthorne as he pushed the side of his fork into the slice of pie on his plate. His hands were long-fingered, deft,
and strong. And competent, as if he was experienced in everything he might want to do.

  Would he be so competent when he took her to bed?

  She inhaled and looked away.

  No doubt Hawthorne was used to simply putting his mind to a thing and seeing it done. Messalina took a sip of the wine to hide a smirk. She almost wanted to be here when he realized his error.

  Hawthorne swallowed a bite of pie and said, “I trust your day was pleasant?”

  Were they playing a happy domestic scene? “Pleasant enough, if a bit boring.” Should she mention the empty library? But if he wasn’t interested in hiring a proper cook, he probably thought books even more frivolous. “And you? What did you do?”

  “I met with your uncle,” he said without inflection.

  And with that she felt the facade of happy domesticity fall.

  “Ah,” she said, and was quite pleased that she hid the bitterness in her voice. “That mysterious task you’re meant to do for him.”

  He sipped his own wine, watching her over the rim. “Yes.”

  She cocked her head. “Not a hint of what it is?”

  His black eyes glittered like the very devil’s in the candlelight as he whispered, “Curiosity can be dangerous.”

  * * *

  Gideon watched as Messalina stiffened, her face closing down, and cursed himself. He was supposed to be seducing his wife, not alienating her with threats.

  But the mere thought of Messalina discovering exactly what task he’d been given by the duke gave him chills. Somehow he doubted that she’d ever forgive him the murder of her brother. Though theirs wasn’t a marriage of love—obviously—the prospect of Messalina actively hating him for the rest of their lives was terrible.

  Which meant he had to be very careful that she never found out that he had already laid plans to kill her brother. He’d given Pea and his boys the names of several aristocrats and tasked Pea with finding out their haunts. Greycourt’s name was buried among the list, the better to hide Gideon’s true interest.

  His lip lifted in distaste for what he intended to do. Gideon smashed a piece of crust. “I arranged for the rest of your possessions to be packed and brought here.”

  “Thank you,” Messalina replied with suspicious sweetness. “Where do you expect me to put them?”