“Yes, while I’m here,” Cade replied with all the nonchalance he could muster.
“And how long will that be?”
“You know me. I tend to stay as long as I have a fancy.”
“That’s fine. As long as you keep yourmistressesout of my house… and away from my wife,” Rafe replied with a smirk.
Cade tugged at his cuff and sighed. “If you’re referring to that unfortunate incident with Miss Jones, I’ve apologized a half dozen times already. How was I to know she would climb into your bed at that inn? Amanda had no idea I was a twin.”
“Yes, well, perhaps if you conducted yourself with a bit more, ahem, decorum, neither of us would be subjected to such unfortunate incidents.”
“Decorum?” Rafe shook his head. “Sucha boring word.”
Rafe muttered something unintelligible under his breath and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Cade grinned from ear to ear. His brother had been grumbling and rubbing his nose at him since they were lads. It was a sure sign Cade had got under his skin.
“‘The Black Fox Strikes Again’?” Rafe’s voice was a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
Cade winced. He should have tossed the paper aside when he’d had the chance.
Rafe’s gaze captured Cade’s over the top of the page. “Have you heard of him?”
“Who?” Cade asked, picking a nonexistent bit of lint from his coat sleeve. Bloody aristocrats and their bloody fancy clothing. It had nearly become a full-time occupation tending to his wardrobe since he’d taken up residence in Mayfair.
“The Black Fox,” Rafe drawled.
Cade sighed. “Seems I might have heard a mention a time or two.” He readjusted his cravat and cleared his throat.
Rafe’s brows lifted. “Says here he’s a pirate, an Englishman. He stole some valuable cargo from a French ship docked in the harbor last night.”
“Is that so?” Cade made a show of looking about for a footman to place another order of brandy. He declined to meet his brother’s eyes.
Rafe shook out the paper to see more of the story. “It also says he’s a master of disguise.”
Having located a footman and placed his order, Cade settled back in his chair and shrugged. He scratched at his eyebrow. “Does it? How interesting. Someone you’re looking for?”
“You know I cannot discuss my assignments,” Rafe said, still studying the paper.
“Ah yes, the Viscount Spy. Isn’t that your new sobriquet? It’s all quite clandestine, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Rafe nodded toward the paper again. “Know anyone who’s a master of disguise,Mr. Oakleaf?”
CHAPTER THREE
Danielle LaCrosse smoothed the skirts of her simple white gown as she waited in the viscountess’s fancy drawing room. Gowns were highly overrated. Managing the skirts alone was a chore. She’d nearly tripped half a score of times today. She studied the gilt portraits, the sterling silver candlesticks, and the wallpaper that no doubt cost more than the entire little cottage near the shore she’d been saving for for so long.
She’d never seen anything so fine as the contents of this room. Tiny porcelain figures of birds that seemed to have no purpose other than to be pretty. An ornate gilded box resting on a nearby table that Danielle had been unable to keep herself from peeking into (it contained dried rose petals of all things). And carpet so rich and thick she’d momentarily indulged in the ridiculous desire to slip off her shoe and plunge her stocking-covered toes into the deep weave. And yes, it was every bit as soft as she’d imagined. She was exceedingly grateful no one had witnessed that particular behavior, however. No doubt it was conduct unbecoming of a proper English lady’s maid, but for a French girl who had spent far too long in uncomfortable accommodations, the viscountess’s house was luxurious indeed.
Danielle wasn’t usually nervous, but she desperately needed this position. Being the maid to a fine lady like Lady Daphne Cavendish would not only provide her with more money in a week than a regular maid saw in a month’s time, it would allow her to stay in London. At the moment,thatwas priceless.
The drawing room door opened and a diminutive woman with shining honey-blond hair and watchful gray eyes came gliding into the room. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age. “Please forgive my tardiness,” she said, her dark pink skirts sweeping across the top of the rug as she made her way over to where Danielle sat.
Danielle hopped from her seat and executed her best curtsy, the one she’d been practicing for days. “My lady.”
“Oh, please,” the slightly shorter woman said in a friendly, happy tone. “Do take a seat.”
“Thank you,” Danielle replied, already worrying that her French accent would be looked upon with distaste by her very English potential employer. The wars had been over for two years now, but Danielle knew well there was still a great deal of animosity between the English and the French.
The blond woman smiled at her with kind eyes. “I am Lady Daphne Cavendish,” she announced. Her English accent reminded Danielle of her mother. A sharp pain throbbed in Danielle’s chest.
