“Partly,” Dorian replied. “There was an incident a few months ago when a convoy of expensive Spanish wine I’d imported for the lords who desire a taste of the continent disappeared and somehow ended up at The Crown.”
Nathan grimaced. “I did not know that.”
“I know you did not,” he replied. “Nor did you know about the spy he sent to be employed with me, so he could copy my business model, yet failed spectacularly when I stated that Ispecially employ children to count the silver. He was in a rage when half his silverware vanished.”
Tutting, Nathan threw back the rest of his drink, stood, and tugged his jacket down. “All I am saying is do not poke the bull too quickly or you will get the horns.”
As Nathan got to the double doors, Dorian asked, “What about the Serpents?”
“That is not up to me,” Nathan gave him a reluctant look. “And I suspect you know that already.”
When the door closed, Dorian slumped into his chair and rubbed his prickly jaw, three days in need of a shave. “That is what I was afraid of.”
It is very telling that he has not chained me to the room or tied me down.
“He is wordlessly telling me that if I were to choose to leave, the price of my blood will be on my own hands,” she muttered, pricked with temper. “Thebounder.”
After her mysterious captor had left, she had explored her new home and found a three-bedroom cottage with washrooms, a large kitchen, a drawing room, and even a library. It was utterlybucolic, and if this was not what it was—a gilded cage—Ellie knew she would have loved to live there.
She had paced the bedroom he had laid her in, and found not only that her sack was intact, so was the purse of coin in her coat.
“Well, he is not a petty thief,” she muttered unhappily. “But that does not mean he isn’t a wicked man.”
Plopping down on a chair before a window, she folded her arms on the sill and dropped her chin on the cradle. The grounds surrounding the cottage had trimmed grass that went to the treeline.
Flowerbeds with well-tended wildflowers dotted either side of a walkway that led to a small gazebo. Its cheerful yellow paint and white lattice under-railing drew her eyes; it looked like a spot of sunshine against the dark wall of trees behind it.
Somehow, such gaiety did not mesh with the dark energy her captor—one she’d started to secretly callHades—emanated. Frankly, it looked like something a woman would have commissioned.
Is he married? Does he have a wife hiding in the attic! Good god, what kind of game is he playing?
Terrified, Ellie spun in place, a sudden spike of indecision and fear made her wonder how long it would take to get to Londonand out of here. The jarring scrape of the front door had her spinning, a hand flying to her chest.
Is there an intruder! Has Sterling found me!
“Easy there, little mouse,” Hades said while pulling his jacket off. “I don’t think you can harm anyone with a pillow.”
Glancing down, Ellie looked at the ivory throw pillow she’d grabbed off the couch. “Oh, I don’t know. It may come in handy if I wanted to smother someone.”
His brow ticked up while he plucked his cravat away. “You would have to overpower that person first, and with how slight you are, I scarcely see how you could overpower even a fly.”
She flattened her lips and flung it at him. As quick as a whip, he snatched it out of the air. “Feeling feisty, eh?”
Puffing out a breath, she murmured, “I should have left.”
“But you didn’t, which tells me you have enough self-preservation to keep to where you are safe.” He looked over his shoulder as he strode to the kitchen. “And even if you did, the footmen watching the house would have dragged you back.”
“Pardon—” her head snapped to the left and right. “—I have not seen any footmen.”
“Good,” he said. “They are supposed to be hidden. I have instructed the men to drag you back if you did.”
Following him inside, she watched as he washed his hands, lifted a Dutch pot from a cupboard, and after inspecting it, set it to the side to roll up his sleeves and pluck an onion from a basket.
“You cook?” Her jaw dropped.
He looked over his shoulder, a smile flirting at his lips. “Should I not?”
She shook her head, as if to dislodge a mirage while getting closer. “I cannot recall a lord cooking… a thing. I know my uncle does not—” she came closer to see a chicken, doused in exotic seasoning, ready to be baked, “—nor would I imagine any man would.”
