Like a man?” The lazy voice came from her right. She whirled, fingers tight around the barker. “Is there some template for a manly death?” the voice continued from the darkness. “Because I was preparing to weep and cringe. Is that off the table?”
She stared hard into the shadows. She couldn’t see Rushden’s face but his low, amused voice was enough to make her think he wouldn’t be weeping anytime soon unless she made him. “Step forward,” she said.
“So you can take better aim? That seems unwise.”
She hesitated. This was not the neat murder she’d envisioned. Also, Rushden sounded a small bit young to have tupped her mother some twenty-three years ago.
But Mum had called him the devil, hadn’t she? And devils didn’t age. “Here’s a tip,” she said sharply. “A man don’t cower in the dark.”
A soft laugh answered her. “Fair enough.”
He stepped forward into the square of moonlight.
Her heart leapt into her throat and pounded like it wanted out. If this man was the work of the devil, it was a wonder more men didn’t sell their souls. He was tall, broad-shouldered, lean. Black hair. Full, hard lips. Mocking eyes.
Naked as the day he’d been born.
The man’s laugh matched the look in his eyes, low and unkind. The moonlight showed his fine white teeth, as straight as rails. Nice to be him, nice to be raised on fresh meat at every meal.
“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you,” Nell said.
“Yes, well, you’ll permit me that much. Otherwise, as you see, you have me at a slight disadvantage.”
She glanced down. No, she wouldn’t call it slight. Small mercy that the light probably kept him from seeing the blush on her face.
“Do you like what you see?” he murmured.
Maybe there was light enough, after all. Was this man enjoying himself, buck naked with a gun pointed at his pretty face? “Trying to distract me, are you?”
“Undoubtedly,” he replied.
She nodded. She could see how he thought his body might prove useful in that regard. What nobs she’d seen from a distance generally looked soft and doughy to her. Not this one.
He also didn’t look near to Mum’s age.
A memory sifted upward. Lord Rushden was never one for sporting, her mother had said that one and only time she’d spoken of it. He spent much of his time indoors. He took little interest in the work of his estates. I suppose that accounted for the sin in him; the devil loves nothing more than a pair of idle hands …
Her throat tightened. Mum had never been a hand with descriptions; she very well might have neglected to mention that her lover was a class-A looker with the body of a boxer. Still, trying to square Mum’s description with this body took more imagination than Nell possessed.
Bloody hell.
This couldn’t be the right lord.
He tilted his head slightly. It was the posture of a man considering something. She hoisted the pistol higher. “Don’t try it,” she warned.
“Oh, never,” he said easily. “You’ll find I rarely try.”
This one talked a lot of nonsense in his fancy, drawling voice. “Who are you?” And what the hell was she to do with him? Couldn’t exactly admit her mistake and go waltzing back out.
His dark brows lifted. “My dear. Are you telling me you didn’t bother to learn my name before deciding to shoot me?” He laughed again. “This day grows better and better.”
Weren’t many men in the world who could condescend with a pistol in their faces, but she should have known that they’d congregate right here in Mayfair. “You’re not very bright, are you? Seems to me that since I’m the one with the iron, you should be the one smiling and scraping.”
“Scraping?”
Blimey! Suddenly he was closer than he’d been before. She leapt back. “Don’t move!”
He lifted his hands, palms out. “All right,” he said. “I’m a statue.”
“Statues don’t move,” she said tersely, and his hands stopped climbing. “That’s better. Also, you keep in mind that I heard a great many fancy statues lack for heads.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “Yes. I’ll keep it in mind.”
She took a long breath. “You ain’t Lord Rushden.”
His hesitation was slight, but she noticed it. “In fact, I am.”
“You aren’t old enough!”
“Ah. Perhaps it’s my predecessor you’re seeking.”
At least Mum’s lessons were proving good for something. Most folks in Bethnal Green would not have understood this bloke. Had it not been for all those nights spent with books they could ill afford, Nell wouldn’t have understood him, either. “You mean to say that you’re the new Earl of Rushden.”
“Yes.”
She held very still, waiting for the implications to hit her. They struck hard, like a wallop from Michael’s fist, and they had just about the same effect, for the first sting was followed by a wave of hopelessness so black that she felt her grip on the pistol tremble. “When?”
“Eight months ago,” he said.
Eight months. Her body took a sharper breath, alarming her; it felt too close to a sob. There’d never been any hope, then. She was too late even for revenge.
“I see this is bad news for you.”
The man’s comment cleared her head. It wasn’t bad news that old Rushden was dead, save it meant that she’d now go to the gallows for nothing. For pulling a gun on a man who was nothing to her. Unless … “You’re his son?” she demanded. Mum hadn’t said she had a brother. Maybe a brother would take an interest in helping her.
“Third cousin,” he said.
“Oh.” They were barely kin, then. She couldn’t hope for aught from him.
“What’s your grudge against the man?” he asked.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you care?”
“My dear, you’re aiming a pistol at my face. I’ll care about anything that concerns you.”
The smooth answer made her instincts bristle. He was being slippery with it. He had an idea in his brain that concerned her motives.
“You seem … undecided,” he said.
Wasn’t he the sharp-eyed one. She’d been ready to die if it meant taking her father with her. Justice for her mum: she’d gladly see it through. But she didn’t fancy sacrificing herself to make a stranger pay for his peculiar pauses.
The gun was growing heavy. She adjusted her grip and saw him take note of it. He was going to do something in a minute. He talked lazy as a lord, but he hadn’t earned those muscles by lying on his arse all day.
“I don’t want to shoot you,” she told him. “I had only one killing in mind, and you’re not it. But if you leap at me, I’ll reconsider.”
“I don’t want to be shot,” he said. “So I won’t leap.”
She nodded once. “How do you suggest we conclude this little rendezvous?”
“What an interesting way you have with words. Sometimes you sound as if you were raised in a hovel. And sometimes … Wherever did you learn such vocabulary?”
“None of your business!”
“And it occurs to me that you look familiar.”
“That’s your imagination.”
“I find myself wondering how old you are, Nell.”
She didn’t like the way he said her name. The interest in his voice felt too personal.
“Let me guess,” the man said. “Twenty-two, thereabouts?”
Lucky guess. Or maybe he’d kept tabs on the old earl’s bastards—though she couldn’t think of a reason for him to do so.
In itself, that seemed a bad sign.
“What’s your full name?” he asked.
“Perdition,” she said flatly. “And I’ve been thinking on it, and maybe I’ll shoot you anyway. Seems to me that the fewer Aubyns in this world, the better for the rest of us.”
“I’ve often thought the same.” He directed her a bizarre, pleased smile. “Really, we’re remarkably in accord.” He paused. “I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Simon. Not Aubyn, you’ll be glad to know. Simon St. Maur, at your service.” With a flourish of his hand that made her flinch, he sketched her a bow. A naked bow.
He had muscles in places she’d never even known could flex.
She cleared her throat. “Lunatic relation, are you?”
“I’ve often been called so. And let me guess.” His eyes were sharp on her face. “Nell is short for … Cornelia.”
No reason to be alarmed, she told herself. Nell wasn’t short for much else. “Wrong,” she said. “It’s Penelope.”
“Tell me.” His voice was thoughtful. “Were you really going to kill your own father?”
When he put it that way, it sounded biblically wicked. Wicked enough to distract her just for a moment, and that was all he needed. He lunged forward and before she could fire, he’d smacked the gun out of her hand.
The next second there was a tremendous bang and he had her wrists clamped together and twisted up behind her back as he held her pinned against him. She wrestled as good as she was able and heard him grunt once or twice; her cap came off and she spat hair out of her face as she thrashed.
“Jesus bloody—” The rest of his words were lost in a gasp as she managed to twist and take a bite of his bare shoulder. Solid and hot and salty.
He spat a curse and a door banged open behind her.
“—the police!” somebody shouted, somebody else, probably the foxed valet, and she thrust up a knee. St. Maur did a sharp swivel that caused her to lose her mouthful along with her balance, at which point he had her. She squirmed to confirm it: yes, she was pinned like a butterfly to a board, and soon to be just as dead.
“No police,” St. Maur said. “Have the blue bedroom readied.”
“The blue bedroom!” came the scandalized reply. “Sir, surely the garret—”
“But the blue bedroom has a lock.” Glancing back to her, St. Maur added, “On the outside.”
The door thumped shut again. St. Maur’s free hand hooked into her hair and yanked her head back so they were looking at each other. Her addled brain once again pointed out that he was a fine-looking specimen: his eyes were some muddled shade between green and gray, and every bone in his face was sharp and straight, ruthlessly perfect.
“You’d best let go of me,” she said—or croaked, more like; it was a bad angle for making threats.
One black brow arched. “I think you’re finished giving orders for the night.”
She put a sneer on her own lips as some new evidence made itself known. “Bit of a pervert, aren’t you?” He was hard as a fire iron against her.
The shameless boor did not pretend to miss her meaning, giving her a slow smile that made her throat tighten and blood sting into her cheeks. “Absolutely,” he said. “And what of you?”
“Me what?”
“What am I to think of you?”
“Nothing,” she spat. “I’m nobody.”
“Oh, never that,” he countered. “A confused little girl, no doubt.” He let go of her hair; his knuckles brushed down her cheek, the lightest touch ever to raise the hairs at her nape. “A miracle … perhaps.” His voice dropped. “A figment of a desperate man’s imagination? Possibly.”
“You’re spoony,” she whispered. Mad as a bloody hatter.
“Hmm. Again: possibly.” His hand moved down her throat. Gently skimmed the line of her collarbone. That hand wasn’t showing any sign of stopping. “Or possibly just very insightful.” His touch lingered at her shoulder, his thumb delivering a firm, massaging pressure. She stiffened against it. She’d rake his eyes out.
“Come into a man’s bedchamber at night,” he said in a low voice, “and he might mistake you for his dream.”
A jolt of dread shot through her. “Take your hand off me.”
“Oh, I would. But the day I’ve had … After such a day, such a miserable defeat arranged at someone else’s hands, it’s very difficult to take orders. Fancy it, if you can: having your life turned upside down by a villain. So many expectations crushed. And then the villain’s daughter appears, intent on blowing your brains out.”
He meant her. He meant her father as the villain. “I never knew him,” she said quickly. “Never. I’ve nothing to do with him—”
His finger pressed across her mouth. Hot, rough. Her stomach fluttered. “Shh,” he said, soft and comforting, as though she were a babe. “No matter. You’re still the answer to the riddle. And you called me perverse. I wouldn’t like to disappoint you.”
In astonishment she watched him lean down to kiss her. Brilliant: an opportunity to knee him in the balls.
But his hand planted itself back into her hair. He retook his grip and held her immobile as his lips touched hers.
She snapped at him.
He drew his head back a little, laughing. “Feisty.”
“I’ll bite your tongue out,” she warned him.
“Will you?” He looked diverted. “Shouldn’t you properly be begging for mercy? From the police, etcetera?”
She froze. Was that an offer? Had he just asked for her body in exchange for her freedom?
His smile slipped into a knowing angle. “Here’s your chance,” he said, and leaned in again.
She tried to hold still as his tongue slipped between her lips. Tried to endure it. Only a fool would refuse such a bargain.
But his mouth was … warm. Not as she’d expected. His lips were gentle as they molded against hers. She felt dizzy, suddenly. This wasn’t right. He should be mauling her. She’d been kissed before, hurried gropes she’d beaten off or smacked away, but never like this.
He pulled back a little, his heated breath covering her mouth. “How are we doing?”
“Sod off,” she muttered.
With a little laugh, he applied himself again.
She hesitated only briefly. He would call the coppers or he wouldn’t, but maybe he meant what he’d said: maybe she could sweeten him up and leave him kindly disposed. She opened her mouth and kissed him back.
In reply, an interested little noise came from him. Mmm. His hard body came all the way up against hers. He was taller by a head, but her neck didn’t hurt: he’d slouched down to meet her. And he was licking into her like a child after the last traces of pudding in a bowl, and his mouth tasted like brandy, hot and rich and dark and clever. His hands, long fingers, felt down her spine, pressing, testing, against her lower back, finding the ache there, rubbing it out. She felt a surge of heat, animal-like, this strong, naked man rubbing against her as his mouth devoured her. Why not? What choice did she have?
The quiver in her belly strengthened. She would give herself to him. Let this long, strong body do what it liked with hers.
Lay the terms, a cold voice instructed.
She broke free, not to fight, but to say, breathlessly, “If I do it with you, you promise you’ll let me go.”
His mouth had found her ear, but at these words, he stilled. She had the curious impression that she’d startled him somehow.
He pulled away. The moonlight reflected in his gray-green eyes. Thick, dark lashes framed those eyes, which studied her so narrowly that her intuition strengthened: yes, she’d surprised him. And he didn’t like it. He started to frown.
“Alas,” he said. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I want a different arrangement entirely.”
Nell woke up the next morning spitting mad. She was mad at the fact that the door was still locked. That nobody came when she pounded on it. That she hadn’t just shot the man straight off last night. She was done with being bullied like a dog. He seemed a right arrogant bastard and was a pervert by his own action and admission; she could have done the world a favor by ending him.
She was mad, most of all, at the way she’d slept. One might expect after being mauled by a blackguard to toss and turn a bit. But the bed was like a dream, a soft, fluffy, sinner’s paradise, its pillows stuffed with feathers, the mattress so quiet that even bouncing on it couldn’t draw out a creak. She’d slept like a baby—or, worse yet, like a woman without a brain in her head. The stupidity of it sent cold waves of horror through her. The lock was on the outside of the door! As she’d slept, St. Maur could have come in and done anything!
Now she paced the perimeter of the bedroom, her temper growing worse with each pass. Not ten minutes away, people were suffering, starving—good people, girls who worked from sunup to sundown, babies who’d not asked to be born. But here there were houses full of stuff, fancy sheets woven with silk floss as soft as a baby’s bum; fancy washstands carved of dark wood that glowed like cherries where the light hit it; curtains the shade of the summer sky, heavy and glossy and smooth to the touch. The velvet-flocked wallpaper was so soft beneath her fingertips that had her eyes been closed, she might have thought she was brushing the belly of a rabbit.
And the stool in the corner! One wouldn’t imagine you’d get too fancy with such a piece, but this stool was covered with embroidery so fine that her knuckles ached just looking at the stitches. Unbelievable. The rich even spoiled their arses!
Given a knife, Nell would have cut out that embroidery—some goofy-looking, underfed girl with a unicorn lying next to her, his head in her lap—and sold it for five quid, easy.
But she no longer had a knife. Last night, a couple of thuggish footmen had held her by the arms while a pug-nosed, sour-faced maid had searched her up and down, going straight for the blade Nell kept in her boot.
Why St. Maur was keeping her instead of handing her over to the police was a question Nell didn’t want to entertain. There were a lot of things she didn’t think about as she paced—like, so what if he knew her name? Folks in Bethnal Green didn’t talk to strangers; he’d be hard-pressed to track her down once she escaped. No, she had better things to think about—like what she would manage to steal. A good deal, she hoped. She deserved it for sparing Mr. bloody St. Maur his wretched, dog-eaten life.
She started with the book on the table by the bed. Gilt-edged pages and a cover of patterned red leather. She’d read a good many books in her life, but this was the handsomest she’d ever seen. The story inside looked ripping, too—some yarn about a magical, cursed stone. Mum would have loved it—as long as she wasn’t in one of her moods where only the Bible would serve.
The thought brought a lump into Nell’s throat. She swallowed it down as she traced the grooved design on the cover. She’d not read anything since Mum had passed. Her fury had been too thick for words to penetrate.
Indeed, she rather felt like she’d woken up this morning from a long, mindless binge on gin. The numbness was gone. Her senses seemed sharpened, startling at everything. Even the play of sunlight on the carpet, the moving shadows of leaves, made her flinch.
She loosed a long breath. The book would fetch a good price. She tucked it under the mattress and cast her eye around for more.
By the time she heard footsteps in the hall, she’d picked out several likely pieces: a scrap of lace that had been sitting beneath a vase on the little round table by the bed; a china figurine of a dopey-eyed milkmaid; two silver candlestick holders. She slid them underneath the mattress alongside the book, then sat down atop them as the door opened.
“La-di-da,” she cooed as St. Maur walked in—a fine gold watch in his fob, his tie crisp and as white as a baby’s first diaper. His black hair was brushed back in thick, rippling waves from the sharp bones of his face. “A far finer sight with your clothes on,” she said, and there was a lie she’d tell again and again even if he tortured her. “Me eyes was right sore from the abuse they endured last night.”
His easy smile looked genuine. It made a dimple pop out in his right cheek, proof that preachers lied when they said God was just. Wasn’t any fairness in giving a man with money the sort of face this one was sporting. “Now, now, my dear,” he said as he took up a position against the wall by the door. Didn’t cross his arms or cock his knee or take any measures to look intimidating; rather, he slung his hands in his pockets and tipped his head as casually as a street Arab aiming for an open-eyed nap. “Let’s not begin our discussion dishonestly. I’m a lovely sight with my clothes off, and we both know it.”
Whatever reply she’d been expecting, it had not been that. She’d known some peacocks in her time but it took downright cheek to reply to insults with self-praise. “Big head on you,” she said, unwillingly impressed.
“Doubtless,” he replied.
Silence fell as they studied each other. He had an excellent poker face. Probably made a killing at the card table, and she didn’t doubt he played. He had the mouth of a sinner, his upper lip sharply bowed, his lower full and wide. That mouth had done expert things to her own last night. He knew how to use it.
The thought made her itchy. She looked away for the space of a breath, then back. His growing smile lent him a wicked, sensual air. He looked too comfortable with himself to be a man who cared for Sunday manners.
“You seem cheerful,” he said.
Did she? Then she had a brilliant poker face, too. “I feel cheerful,” she lied. Like a cat forced into water. “A little West End holiday, like a free night in a fine hotel. Leaves me fresh for the coppers, no doubt.”
He lifted his brows in a look of surprise. She got the feeling he was putting it on for show. “Forgive me; I thought I’d made this clear last night. I don’t intend to call the police. I hope that fear didn’t trouble your sleep.”
Why it hadn’t made one good question. Why he wasn’t calling the police made another, but she was hardly going to press her luck by asking. “Kind of you. But if it’s not the blockhouse for me, then I’d best be going.”
“Have somewhere to be, do you?”
She maintained her smile by an effort. She had the pawnshop to visit, in fact. “Sure, and I can’t be missing work, now, can I?”
“And where do you work?” he asked.
She laughed, though it wasn’t funny. “Wouldn’t you like to find out!”
“Indeed, I would.”
The intensity of his interest suggested an irksome possibility. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those do-gooders.” She was done with them. Blooming hypocrites! Come to Bethnal Green with concerned little frowns, luring girls with promises, when all they had to offer was snobbery and those bleeding blankets. God help her if she ever laid eyes on another one—all the same, dull gray wool stamped with Lady So-and-So’s Relief Fund, because heaven forbid a girl should try to pawn it, and buy herself something a little more sightly than an ugly rag that screamed her poverty to anyone with eyes. “Look elsewhere if you want to save somebody,” she said. “I’m not interested in do-gooders’ charity.”
His expression did not change. “While I sincerely doubt that I fit the description, you’ll have to elaborate for me: what on earth is a do-gooder?”
She eyed him skeptically. “I’m sure you know some.”
“Tell me and I’ll think on it.”
“Oh, they’re a strange breed.” She spoke slowly but her thoughts were scrambling. Why so much talk? If he didn’t mean to call the police, why had he kept her here? “One sort is looking to bring you to the Lord. The other is more your lot, people with lives so comfortable that they get bored. Come into the Green to find out how we live. Tell us what’s wrong with us, then go back to their fancy houses and do nothing at all.”
He lifted a brow. “Charity workers, you mean.”
Ha. “I’ve never seen them working, but I expect they lie and say they do. Aye.”
His laughter sounded startled. She allowed herself a small, sly smile in reply.
His own smile faded. He frowned at her, giving her a look more searching and genuine than any he’d worn to date. She gathered that it had just dawned on him she was as human as he, with wits in her head and a mind to direct them. “My dear Lady Cornelia,” he said, “you—”
“Nell is just fine.” What was he on about with this fancy talk? “And as I said—it’s Penelope.”
“Hmm.” He considered her in silence. At length, he said, “You seem to have inherited your father’s … unusual … brand of charm. Ornery,” he added with a smile.
Hearing something good about her father—even indirectly, even as a jibe in disguise—seemed wrong, like nature reversing itself, the sky landing and the earth going up. On the other hand, her father was dead, so it wasn’t like she could resent St. Maur for praising him. People were beholden to praise the dead, even the bad ones. It was the living who were the pains in the arse.
“Thanks,” she said. “Glad to hear it. Maybe I’ll just try to charm my way out of here, then, because I wasn’t joking. Some of us have to earn our bread.”
He gave a visible start. “Bread! Good God, you must be starving.” He leaned over to yank on a rope hanging out of the wall. Bellpull, probably. They’d installed some at the factory in case of emergencies. They were useless, though; the time she’d pulled one, the hydraulic pump hadn’t stopped for five long minutes. In the interim, it had pressed more than tobacco. A woman had died.
The memory made her stomach judder.
“Do you take coffee, or tea, or both?” he asked.
“I’ll take an omnibus.” She put the full force of her will into the glare she gave him. “Or I’ll take a quid, if you want to pay me the week’s wages I’m sure to lose when I don’t make an appearance at my job.”
“Done,” he said, so immediately that she felt a small shock. So casually he offered up that much money?
But of course he did. To him, twenty shillings was dust on the floor.
She felt sick. She could have asked for more. Twenty-five. Thirty, even.
But it still wouldn’t be enough without the loot under the mattress. She’d need a proper fortune to spring Hannah.
A mobcapped maid ducked her head inside the door. It wasn’t the sour-faced, scrawny one from last night, but a pale, plump thing that darted Nell a scared look. Nell bit her tongue against the urge to shout boo.
“A tray for the lady,” St. Maur told the goose. “Coffee and tea, if you will. And perhaps …” Nell caught his amused glance. “Chocolate, too,” he said. “Along with the usual breakfast assortment.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Very good, my lord.” She ducked a curtsy before fleeing.
Nell stared after her. Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for St. Maur said, “What is it? She offends you?”
“No, of course not.” But it made her spine crawl to see a girl duck her head and bob like a slave. “Just can’t understand why anyone would go into service.”
“Why not?”
“Having to bow to the likes of you, for starters.” She hesitated, suddenly uncertain of why she felt so hostile toward him. In all fairness, he was being pretty kind about the fact that she’d broken into his house and threatened to shoot him. He was even going to give her a quid.
That was what made her bristle. He was offering kindness that she didn’t deserve, which meant he wanted something. What could a man like this possibly want from her?
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said easily. “Three meals a day, a comfortable lodging, safety, security—surely these things are worth the occasional curtsy?”
“I guess it all depends,” she muttered.
“Depends on what?”
“On how much your pride is worth to you.”
He pushed away from the wall, a languid, easy move. She leapt off the bed and positioned herself in reach of the candlestand. He had a long, clever mouth, but if he tried to put it on her again, she’d brain him.
St. Maur walked on by her, momentarily examining the mattress. Her heart leapt into her throat. But if he noticed the lumps, he didn’t remark on them. Turning, he said only, “You value your pride, I take it?”
That struck a nerve. She’d lowered herself to thieving for her mum’s sake, which made it all right—so she’d told herself.
But in the end, the doctor hadn’t been able to do a thing. Now Mum was dead and Hannah was rotting in prison.
“Pride’s the only thing nobody can take away from you,” she said. You could handily destroy it yourself, though.
He lifted a brow. “I didn’t figure a woman with a black eye to be so naive.”
She’d forgotten about that. She reached up to touch the bruise. Michael had been out of his right mind yesterday. Had she not managed to escape, he probably would have killed her.
The look coming over St. Maur’s face made her flush. She didn’t need his pity. “You can figure me however you like,” she said. “Why, did somebody steal your pride sometime?”
“Not mine.” He sat down on the bed, and the smile that edged onto his lips made her heart sink. He knew there was something under the sheets that shouldn’t be there. “But the last earl was a different matter,” he continued. “Somebody did steal his pride—or, to risk sentimentality, his pride and joy, as it were.”
She supposed she was meant to find his pause suspenseful. “Spit it out,” she said.
“They stole you.”
A snort escaped her. Not hard to steal a bastard nobody had wanted. But she didn’t speak the thought. St. Maur was clearly trying to trick her into something. Until she figured out his goal, it was better to keep herself to herself.
He seemed to see through her silence. “You have a great deal of discipline,” he murmured. “Not many manners, but self-possession in spades.”
There was something new in his regard, now—something canny and assessing that made her skin crawl. “What am I, a horse for auction? Would you like a look at my teeth?”
“No,” he said with a slow smile. “Indeed, Miss Nell-not-Cornelia, it’s your lucky day, for I want you just as you are.”
She tensed. Here it came. Whatever he was after, he was about to announce it.
But he didn’t. He simply continued to look at her, his striking eyes—more gray than green at present—wandering up and down her figure. It was his eyelashes, maybe, that made him so handsome; they were so thick and dark that they framed his eyes like whore’s kohl.
But no whore had ever given anyone such a look. His inspection was calculating. He wasn’t figuring out how much to bid for her. He was deciding whether to bid at all, or whether to skip the bid and simply take whatever it was he wanted.
The realization set her heart to hammering, the heavy, solid knocks urging her to get up and get ready. He was a long, muscled man, too light on his feet for his height; it wasn’t going to be easy to get away from him. But if it was going to end in violence, she’d rather get on with it. “All right,” she said. “What do you want me for?”
His gaze lifted to hers. “What do you think of this house?”
She blinked. “It’s nice,” she said warily.
“Would you like one of your own?”
A startled laugh slipped out of her. He didn’t so much as crack a smile.
Good God, did he expect a proper answer to this piece of nonsense? “Why not?” she said. “I’d keep the pawnshops busy for a few months, I reckon.”
He looked thoughtful. “Stripping it, do you mean? No, you wouldn’t require money in this scenario. You’d be wealthy in your own right.”
Oh ho! His deck was definitely missing a few cards. “Sounds lovely,” she said carefully. “Why don’t you give me a taste now? Five pounds, say, just to test out how I feel about it.”
“That can be arranged,” he said. “But it would require an agreement between us.”
Of course it would. “Let me guess. This arrangement involves me lifting my skirts.”
“Indeed not,” he said gently. “My dear girl, I only wish to restore you to your rightful place. To your true inheritance.”
“Inheritance,” she said flatly.
“Just so,” he said.
He made no sense. “And what would that be?”
“First, ask who. There’s your twin sister, for one—Lady Katherine Aubyn.”
Her jaw dropped. That girl in the photograph she’d seen in the shopfront? Half sister, yes, but a twin? That would mean …
A smile crept over her mouth. “Didn’t expect you to have a sense of humor.”
“How shortsighted of you,” he said, not sounding offended. “But I’m not joking.”
No, she saw, he wasn’t joking. He had rats in his upper story. He was cracked.