With simmering anticipation, Gavin watched as the door opened and a figure entered the room. He registered the slight build, the way the overly large green cutaway coat flapped around slender legs. The brim of a hat curved low over short brown curls. The fellow looked up, and Gavin felt an odd jolt in his gut.
The eyes that met his were wide and thickly lashed and the color... he'd never seen eyes so blue. Vivid and pure, the shade of a summer sky in a painting. Befuddled, he took stock of the rest of the face: fine contours, pert nose, and a bushy mustache that overshadowed the small, neat features. A stranger—and definitely not Paul Fines.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" Gavin demanded.
The youth seemed to hesitate on the threshold. Then he straightened his shoulders and came toward the desk, each step infused with coltish energy. He stopped on the other side of the polished mahogany; his head tipped to the left as he perused Gavin, his gaze catching on the scar. Gavin expected the usual averting of the eyes, signs of fear or disgust, yet the clear blue orbs did not waver in their bold assessment.
Devil take it, he was being sized up. In his own bloody office and by a cheeky chap not half his size.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hunt." Despite the soft and rather musical voice, there was no mistaking the other's determined manner. "My apologies for calling uninvited. I had no choice, you see—"
"Piss on the song and dance. I want to know who you are and why you lied about being Paul Fines."
The oversized patch of hair trembled upon the lad's upper lip. Not with fear, as one would rightly expect, but with… indignation? "I did not lie, sir. My nameisFines."
Gavin's eyes narrowed. "Who is Paul Fines to you?"
"He is my brother." The little chin went up. "And I have come on his behalf."
Did the greenhorn take him for a fool? Beneath the desk, Gavin's hands curled into fists. He'd made it his business to know the ins and outs of his enemy's adopted family. Jeremiah Fines, the patriarch and founder of Fines & Company Shipping, was dead four years. He'd left a widow, Anna, and two children. The heir and eldest was Paul Fines, and he had no brother. Just a spoiled hellion of a younger...
Bloody fucking hell. It can't be.
Gavin pushed to his feet. At the sound of the skidding chair, Fines gave a start, hands flying instinctively to his chest. Those fingers, Gavin saw, were slim and dainty and tipped by neat, oval fingernails.
"I'll have your name," Gavin said, his jaw clenched.
A cough, followed by a gruff reply. "It is Percy, sir."
I'll be damned.
He rounded the desk. "Percy… short for Percival, I assume?" he inquired in silky tones.
"Everyone, um, calls me Percy. You may call me Fines, if you like."
"Well then,Percy," he said deliberately, noting the flush creep up those milky cheeks, "what is it that I can do for you today?"
"I have come to discuss my brother's vowels. To negotiate their release, in point of fact."
Gavin had to give the chit credit for her brazenness. For he had no doubt thatPercywas none other than Paul Fines' younger sister, Persephone. God's teeth, she had a bigger pair of bollocks than most men. Brutes twice her size quaked before him and would sell their own mothers before they dared to deceive him. Yet here she was, masquerading in that ridiculous get-up and demanding to negotiate with him?
In most cases, he'd have quashed such impudence immediately. But this reckless hoyden… he did not know whether he admired her ingenuity or wanted to throttle her for it. While he made up his mind, he saw no harm in teaching her a little lesson.
"Something tells me I'll want a drink for this discussion." He felt her wary gaze follow him as he went to the liquor cabinet and filled two glasses. Returning, he held one out to her.
Taking it cautiously, she sniffed the beverage. Her nose wrinkled. "What is this?"
"Whiskey, of course. The beverage of choice amongst gentlemen." He raised a brow. "Surely you've had it."
Her lush, sable lashes swept up; he was once again struck by the radiance of her gaze. Bright as bloody sunshine upon a lake. With eyes like that, did she truly think that she could pass for a gent?
"Of course I've had whiskey. 'Tis my favorite, as a matter of fact," she said stoutly.
She was also a terrible liar, he observed; if she turned any redder, she'd be mistaken for an apple. Indeed, her cheeks had just the right curve to make a man want to take a bite. He found himself wondering what she looked like without the mustache and wig. Without the gentleman's clothes, as well. Or any clothes, for that matter.
Hmm, interesting direction his thoughts were taking.
"Bottoms up," he said, raising his glass.
