A gauntlet had been thrown. One she couldn’t resist.
‘I create my own luck, Your Grace.’ Before she could stop herself, she winked. Turning in a swirl of brown skirts, she slipped out of the study and shut the door behind her.
Bloody hell. I shouldn’t have done that.
She’d blundered this mission. The duchess would not be pleased. Neither would the Queen.
Lieutenant General Robert Killian, Duke of Covington, honoured war hero, leader of men, killer of tyrants, and spy for the prime minister, was well and truly flummoxed. Outfoxed by a diminutive woman in brown muslin who wielded a knife. He bent to pick up the incriminating blade from where it had landed under the couch.
‘Who exactly are you, Miss Simmons?’ he whispered into the empty room. A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. He was barking at the moon if he expected any answers in the hollow spaces of Lord Bradford’s deserted study. But she had been looking for something before he interrupted her. Which was precisely why Killian was there himself. It was a capital place to search for evidence.
But what on earth was a lady’s companion doing looking for evidence?
He walked over to the desk, now illuminated by silver moonlight. An abandoned candle still smoked on the marble tabletop, emitting a pleasant blend of smoke and beeswax. He picked upthe candle, walked briskly to the banked fire, and used a burning coal to light the wick.
Returning to the desk, he studied the open ledger: a column of neatly printed names with numbers adjacent. Wages, judging by the amounts. One name jumped out at him like a striking snake.
‘Why is Miss Simmons interested in the wages of Lord Bradford’s household staff? And why would she pause on this page?’ The room remained annoyingly silent, refusing to reveal its secrets. Killian shook his head, baffled by the mysterious motivations of the intriguing woman. When was the last time a woman had drawn such interest from him?
He should return to the drawing room. A prospect far more enticing when he thought of Miss Simmons. She had been in his vicinity all evening yet managed to escape his notice.
Fascinating.
There was more to this wallflower than copper hair and the intoxicating scent of orange blossoms and vanilla. His sixth sense urged him to pursue her. The same silent voice that had saved him from innumerable perils during the Anglo-Afghan war. The voice prompting him to follow loose ends, thereby thwarting three assassination attempts on Queen Victoria in the two years since his military retirement. The voice whispering to him now about the petite woman in a dull, brown dress.
Miss Simmons is far more complex than she appears.
He had no desire to sip port and smoke cigars with the men invited to Lord Bradford’s dinner party. Nor did he wish to join the ladies at their whist tables, but he wouldn’t mind another verbal sparring match with the prickly lady’s companion. Or a tumble on the carpet.
Absolutely not.
Killian was not immune to the charms of the fairer sex, but it had been years since his body reacted to a woman with such fierceand demanding need. That was troubling enough, but his lack of control was even more concerning. He almost pressed his advantage when she was trapped beneath him. Unconscionable. He was a man of honour, or at least, a man desperately trying to reclaim his honour. Taking liberties with an innocent woman was unacceptable, especially when those liberties had not been requested.
But if she were to request them…
Impossible. He would not ruin a woman who had no hope of becoming more to him than a passing pleasure. While her protector, Lady Philippa Winterbourne, was among the most wealthy and powerful individuals within the beau monde – even rumoured to be friends with the Queen – Hannah Simmons was a commoner. The idea of a liaison with her was laughable. And yet, when he exited the study and clipped down the winding staircase, a thrill of unexpected anticipation propelled him into the drawing room.
‘Killian! Where did you wander off to, eh?’ Lord Geoffrey Bradford’s words emerged from a cloud of fragrant cigar smoke. He sported an obscenely lustrous moustache that he was prone to stroking like a sleek cat. ‘Bothering my maids, you rogue.’ The older gentleman burst into rasping laughter that ended with a coughing fit.
‘Hardly,’ Killian answered, joining his host and Lord Cavendale, Duke of Landington. The two men were congregating near a massive hearth at the room’s far end. The hot, summer evening precluded a fire. Killian was grateful the windows had been opened to usher in a cool breeze. It did little to dispel the miasma of fragrances emanating from the ladies in the room. Lavender, rosewater, and lily warred with one another much as the women battled for attention from the eligible bachelors in their company. Killian’s wealth, title, and military record made him a highly coveted prize amongst the ladies. He shuddered at the thought.
Alfred Cavendale, Lord Cavendale’s eldest son, joined the trio of men. ‘Lieutenant General Killian, I was surprised to hear you were attending tonight. Shouldn’t a man with your military reputation be off leading innocent men to their deaths in some godforsaken land? Oh, but you’ve retired, haven’t you? A stroke of luck for future solders.’ Alfred’s grip was firm as he shook Killian’s hand, and his gaze narrowed with scorn.
Killian ground his teeth together, refusing to allow the rage to surface. He deserved Alfred’s contempt after failing to save the man’s brother.
‘Alfred.’ Lord Cavendale’s brows drew down in stern censure.
Alfred turned away from his father and sipped his glass of whiskey.
Lord Cavendale’s focus shifted to Killian. His eyes softened. ‘Please accept my apologies on behalf of my eldest. Alfred has never understood the harsher realities of war. While Patrick was fighting for his country, Alfred was wasting his time and a good deal of my money at the gaming hells showing his wastrel friends how bad he is at bluffing, weren’t you, boy?’ Lord Cavendale’s lips turned down as though he tasted something sour.
Alfred continued to stare at the barren fireplace, but Killian saw the younger man flinch at his father’s words.
‘Age has taught me much. Cruel and terrible things happen to us, and sometimes there is no one to blame.’ Lord Cavendale’s gaze speared Killian, seeing more than Killian wanted to reveal. ‘Least of all the courageous few who take on the burden of leadership.’ He tipped his chin at Killian, a silent gesture of affirmation.
Lord Cavendale’s kind words only intensified the flames of guilt licking at Killian’s soul. He doubted Patrick’s father would feel the same way if he knew the truth. Patrick Cavendale had died broken, bloodied, and disfigured in a stinking pit while Killian remained untouched by the enemy soldiers who had heldthem captive. He had failed Patrick. He had failed all of his men, and the shame consumed him. Killian glanced again at Alfred.
Goddammit, he looks like his brother.
