The spy was a female.
Thank sweet Christ for that.
But whilst relief pulsed through him, it did nothing to abate his rage. Who was she? Whose employ was she in? How had she gained entrance? Why did she have to possess the most delectable bottom he had ever seen?
He gritted his teeth, dispelling that last, errant thought. “You, sir. Come with me, if you please.”
*
Frederica would nothave been more alarmed had the devil himself appeared before her. As it was, given his grim flair for dress—all black, from his cravat and breeches to his shirt and waistcoat, as if he were in a state of perpetual mourning—he resembled him well enough. The only lightness on this man was his golden hair and his bright blue eyes that roamed over her face now in a manner she could not like.
Indeed, he left her feeling…restless. Unsettled. Curious.
Who was this tall, angry, beautiful stranger?
She forced herself to speak in as gruff a tone as she could manage. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
When she had first settled upon her madcap plan, she had not imagined she would be seen. She had foolishly thought she would go as unnoticed as the wall coverings or the carpet. After all, these wicked men had so much distraction, all manner of vices. Dice. Drink. Scandalous females in dampened skirts.
She shuddered. Papa would lock her in her chamber if he learned of her disgraceful endeavors. She would be ruined. Unutterably. Ineligible for a proper marriage. She would be scorned and given the cut direct.
However, since her mother and father wished for her to marry the odious Earl of Willingham, such a fate may not prove as repulsive as one might think.
“You,” the man repeated, his tone dark enough to rival his attire as he dredged her from her whirling thoughts. “Come with me.”
She blinked, eyeing him over her spectacles, for she could not see through the dreadful things, and they were merely another effort to distort her appearance. “No.”
He raised a lone, golden brow, observing her as a king might his lowly vassal. “You are trespassing, sir. You are not a member of my club. Indeed, you are fortunate I have not yet brought the law down upon you.”
Not a member ofhisclub?
Her mouth went dry.
Could it be that the man before her was the infamous Duncan Kirkwood himself? But how? He did not resemble the dark-haired, long-nosed, effeminate Earl of Willingham—his rumored half brother—in the slightest. If it was indeed Mr. Kirkwood scowling at her, none of the caricatures she had seen had done him justice. Often, he was depicted as a brute, occasionally as Beelzebub. This man was neither of those. He commanded attention, exuding an air of danger and elegance she had never before seen in another gentleman.
“I am afraid I cannot accompany you,” she said past lips that had gone numb.
“And I am afraid you must.” He caught her elbow then, and began hauling her through the sea of his patrons as though she were a criminal about to be cast into Newgate.
“See here, sir,” she protested in as gruff and commanding a voice as she could muster, resisting his superior strength by dragging her heels and making herself a dead weight. “I am ill. I must return home at once.”
Dreadful excuse, Frederica.
His attention snapped back to her, his expression cut in stone. That unnaturally blue gaze swept over her. “You seem perfectly hale to me.”
She cleared her throat. “I misspoke. Mymotheris dreadfully ill, not I. I must return home to attend her. She is suffering from the Melancholius Ague, and it will not be long until she succumbs, God have mercy upon her soul. She has no one but a gouty old manservant named Arthur for accompaniment, as our means have been substantially reduced by my love of vice.”
He stared at her, and while the large chamber with its gleaming wood, sumptuous furniture, and breathtaking oil murals was laden with lords, it seemed for a moment as if they were the only two people who existed. “What manner of ague?”
Oh dear, what had she invented? This sort of thing ever landed her in trouble in her novels. On page three, the villain would be Sir Carstairs, and by page thirty, he would be Sir Carmichael.
“The Melancoholius Ague,” she guessed, her mind working to save her hide by fashioning an endless fount of distraction. “The manservant also has but one leg, and he is blind. So, you see, I really ought not to have left them at all. He can scarcely look after dearest Mama, but I cannot control my need for wagering and…sin.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Blind, you say?”
“And deaf as well,” she added. “Not entirely, mind you. He can hear high-pitched noises. Kitchen mice, for instance. The squeaking, you understand. My mother’s voice is quite unnaturally low for a female. The manservant cannot make out a word she says, I am afraid. You must see how dire the situation is, and if you please, I must take my leave at once.”
“Indeed.” His gaze roamed over her once more, seeming to settle far too long upon her bosom, which she had painstakingly and painfully bound before donning her brother’s stolen attire. “This…unfortunate creature. What is his name?”
