“Father,” she said again, her voice tense and shrill even to her own ears, “what does Lord Kilross speak of?”
“Will you tell her,” the earl added, “or shall I?”
Father settled his spectacles back upon the bridge of his nose, meeting her gaze at last, and the profound sorrow she read there was more disheartening than his studious avoidance. “I am afraid I made a grave blunder, dearest girl. I owe Lord Kilross a great deal of funds.”
“You owe me more funds than you own,” Kilross interjected.
Good God, it was even worse than she supposed. Naively, she had imagined Father’s eagerness to carry out the earl’s plan was because he did not wish to lose his position. Now, it would seem his eagerness was caused by his desire not to lose everything.
“I… Jacinda, I am indebted to Lord Kilross.” Her father’s pallor grew. “I was caught up in the thrill of the game, and I am afraid I lost my prudence. He requested I infiltrate Whitley’s home in search of documents proving the duke’s guilt in return for forgiving a number of my vowels. That was when I had to admit I cannot decipher as I once was capable. That you have been carrying the weight for me for some time now, and that if anyone should be sent, it had to be you.”
The breath slowly left her lungs, a searing sense of betrayal following in its wake. Father, who she depended upon, Father, who she loved, had lost everything to the Earl of Kilross. Worse, he had admitted his frailty to a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a man who would not hesitate to use that knowledge against him at the slightest provocation.
She had thought she was saving Father from discovery. But instead, she was saving them both from utter ruin. They were at the mercy of the Earl of Kilross in every sense.
“So, you see,” Kilross said smoothly, a triumphant smile creasing his face, “you have no choice, Mrs. Turnbow. You will return to Whitley House, and you will find evidence against the Duke of Whitley. Break every blessed lock you must. Do you truly imagine the man would leave evidence of his guilt strewn about for anyone to see?”
She flushed. “No, my lord, though I confess I do not possess the sort of mind that thrives upon duplicity.”
His countenance darkened. “You have three weeks remaining to find the documents I need. If you fail to do so in that time, not only will your father lose his position with the Foreign Office, but you will both lose this home and all of your possessions. You will be cast into the streets where you both belong, and I shall not feel a moment’s pity for either of you.”
She looked back to her father, heart sinking. “Father?”
He heaved a mournful sigh, closing his eyes. “It is true, Jacinda. Every word of it. You must find what Lord Kilross seeks. The very roof over our heads depends upon it.”
Sick, she excused herself from the room and fled back to Whitley House before her absence went noticed. Now, more than ever, she needed to uncover the evidence Kilross sought. For she knew without a doubt the heartless scoundrel would have no compunction about taking everything and leaving her and Father in the streets as he’d promised.
One thing was certain. She needed to find her way into the locked drawer of Whitley’s desk, no matter the means.
*
Crispin stared atthe indecent mural painted on the ceiling above him. A lush, naked pair of nymphs were kissing open-mouthed and pleasuring each other’s cunnies. His prick didn’t even stir. Cursed organ. Did it not know its use?
Obviously not.
He had been awake for a day. Or perhaps it was three.
Who the bloody hell knew?
He’d been indulging in drink and gambling at The Duke’s Bastard and distracting himself from thoughts of a red-haired siren governess as best as he knew how. Which meant playing the tables, losing himself in whisky and gin, and retreating to a private chamber where he could pretend to sleep or reluctantly dismiss the lightskirts that Duncan sent him in what seemed to be an endless procession.
For although it had been his intention to find a bit of quim and satisfy the hungers raging through him, something dashed odd had happened to his cock. Something—he had no doubt—caused by Miss Governess herself. His ample opportunities for release had been met with an utter dearth of enthusiasm on the part of the necessary appendage.
And never let it be said that Duncan Kirkwood, proprietor of The Duke’s Bastard, did not do everything within his significant power to see his patrons had entertainment aplenty by any manner of vice they chose. Wagers, faro, hazard, liquor, or cunny, Duncan had it all at the ready.
There had been blondes, brunettes, an exotic raven-haired beauty, another whose tresses were clearly blackened by her own hand, and a redhead who had almost suited him but not as well as the original flame-haired witch beleaguering his thoughts.
There had been full breasts, small breasts, hard nipples, lush hips, and eager mouths. They had come in pairs and even trios, touching and caressing and kissing each other in a bid to arouse him. One had fallen to her knees, burying her face between the thighs of another. The wet sounds of her tongue and suction should have aroused him.
But he had been left feeling distant, unmoved. Vaguely disgusted by the depths to which he had sunk. Utterly unappreciative of the show they’d offered him.
He couldn’t recall the names of any of the whores. Didn’t remember what they had been wearing. He could not even call to mind the image of the lightskirt who had been so intent upon licking her comrade to submission. At the very least, he ought to have been able to free his cock from his breeches and stroke himself to oblivion as he watched the two women pleasure each other.
But the notion held no appeal. Not while they appeared before him half naked and hungry for each other and certainly not now when he looked back upon it, an hour or so after their abrupt dismissal.
The only thing that hardened his cock was thoughts of Miss Governess.
Which was why he was laid out on the bed in his private chamber, fully clothed, half drunk, and hollow.
