Sutton cut him off. “This,” he said, pointing at the man with the muddy carriage, “is Julius Blackwell, Earl of Rothchild. Julius, meet Miss Antoinette LeBlanc.”
The man nodded and Netta sketched a hasty curtsy.
“And the one glowering at me,” Sutton said, pointing at the blond man, “is Marcus Hawkridge, Duke of Montague.”
Netta’s pulse bounded through her veins like a hare. A duke. She made her curtsy a bit deeper this time.
Sutton rubbed his chin, his fingers disappearing into his bushy, black beard. “They managed to marry sisters, Elizabeth and Amanda, who I’m certain you’ll meet if you remain under this roof too much longer. And lastly, the one with dirty boots and country manners is, unbelievably, a marquess. Sinclair Archer, Marquess of Dunkeld to be exact. His wife came down from Scotland with him but was sensible enough to want to rest at Rothchild’s after the journey.”
Sutton glanced over at the breakfast tray and picked out a lemon tart. “And you met me and Colleen, of course.”
“Of course.” Her thighs burned from all the curtsies. John was an earl. Of course he’d have high-ranking friends. She should have expected it. Thankfully not one was a name she recognized as being among her father’s intimates.
But seeing John’s friends all standing in a loose row sent a decided shiver down her spine, and it wasn’t from fear of being recognized. These men were formidable enough to constitute a small army and each handsome enough to make a woman’s head go soft. All grouped together as they were…well, Netta could forgive herself the tiny flutters in her stomach.
“Not five minutes arrived and eating me out of house and home already.” John strode into the room, and her flutters multiplied into a thousand butterfly wings flapping in tandem. The room brightened just with his presence, as though he were the sun bringing life and energy to everyone around him.
Heat kindled low in her belly. She wasn’t sure how she felt about losing her role as the star in the room, but she couldn’t deny any longer the power he held over her.
He nodded to Netta, as though she were nothing more than a casual acquaintance, before greeting each of his friends with hearty backslaps and rude jests.
She turned, hoping to hide her hurt. She’d thought he’d felt free to show her affection in front of his friends. Nothing amiss had occurred between them since the time he’d slipped from his bed that morn to break his fast at parts unknown and now. No disputes that could have turned his feelings from fondness to disfavor.
She didn’t demand a declaration of love before allowing men into her bed, but she did need mutual respect and affection. Had she been fooling herself believing the Earl of Summerset held her in the same esteem she did him? Was he embarrassed to acknowledge to his friends that his dalliance was with a woman not of their station?
She turned back around, lifting her chin. Or perhaps she was reading too much into a cool greeting. First and foremost, they had a business arrangement. She needed to remember that.
John strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver urn. “Now, to what do I owe this invasion?” He took a sip, peering at his friends over the rim.
“You know why.” The Duke of Montague widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest.
Rothchild bobbed his head in her direction. “Perhaps we should move our discussion to your library. We’ve already incommoded Miss LeBlanc long enough.”
John chuckled and came to stand beside her. He stood beside her, but still the few inches between them remained cold. “Netta is quite familiar with the particulars of what you’ve come to discuss. In fact, she is integral to my plan’s implementation.”
A wedge of the Scotsman’s second roll broke off and tumbled to the floor. “You’ve made that wee lass a part of your plan?”
John stiffened. “Her size is not an indication of her talents.”
Netta rested one hand on her hip. Indeed it was not. And if any of these gentlemen thought to cut her out of the plot, and her four thousand pounds, they had another think coming.
“Not all talents are useful for what you have in mind.” Dunkeld kicked the bit of bread towards the fireplace. “I’m sure she’s…charming, but I could knock her over with a heavy breath.”
Netta clenched her hands. She might be short, but she was sturdy enough. And she’d been in enough scraps to know the best way to win a fight was to avoid it altogether.
That money was so close she could almost taste it. “You don’t need to concern yourself with my safety. I can assure you that I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
The look the large Scotsman gave her bordered on pity, raising her hackles even farther.
John, however, found fault with his friend’s words for a different reason. “Apologize to Netta this instant,” he bit out through clenched teeth.
The energy in the room shifted. The remaining men stepped closer, legs tense, as though preparing to separate the two. Dunkeld merely looked up from the crumbs he was brushing from his cravat and blinked. “What?”
John prowled forwards, looking as deadly as a large cat stalking its prey. He must have practiced walking with a book on his head for hours as a child. Except for his legs drawing him inexorably forward, the rest of his body remained still as the grave.
The effect was frightening.
She leapt forwards and grabbed his arm. “John, he didn’t mean it in that manner.”
