“Now we’ve begun to see eye to eye,” said Girdleston, chuckling. “Actually, I believe Lady Helena may accept your presence more openly if you take on some service role in the household. An alternative identity, if you will. I was thinking you might fit well in the role of personal groom to the future duchess.”
“Oh God,” Declan breathed, turning away.
“I understand that you occasionally assume false identities or undertake some subterfuge in order to do your job more effectively,” Girdleston said. “And your time in the army would have made you a proficient horseman. Given the correct livery and proper bearing, I believe you would make a convincing stable groom. And certainly this position will give you reason to follow the girl about and redirect her should she... lose sight of her purpose. And you will be handsomely, handsomely compensated. Enough money, Huntsman, to never have to work again, if you so choose.”
Declan considered this.
He considered a young woman who required an armed guard simply to get married.
He considered posing as a groom, wearing livery and adopting the bearing of a servant, whatever that meant.
He considered what kind of duke sent his uncle to hire an ex-convict to guard his future wife.
But most of all, he considered the payout. Girdleston had been dead accurate about Declan’s need to make considerable money, and fast. If it was only himself, Declan could live lean while he rebuilt his life. But he was not one man, alone—he had a duty to his father and sisters.
“How much?” Declan rasped. In the end, this was all that mattered.
Girdleston smiled. “Five hundred pounds, Huntsman. All payable upon delivery of this young woman into holy matrimony with my nephew, the duke.”
Declan made a choking sound and stifled it with a cough. He’d been thinking of a number in his head that would make the job worthwhile. The sum Girdleston named exceeded it by several hundred pounds. He studied the older man with new eyes. What was so important about this wedding that justified the outlay of £500?
“And if I fail?” Declan asked, perhaps the most important question of the day. “What if this woman evades me or makes trouble? What if something goes wrong? In my experience, disaster proliferates when females are involved. You wouldn’t be making the offer if she was easy.”
“Oh yes, of course,” chuckled Girdleston. “Females, troublesome creatures, there is no doubt.”
“I vowed after Knightly Snow never to take on another female client.”
“Well then, I suggest that you not think of the client,” urged Girdleston, “think of the lovely payment. If you succeed, you will be a rich man.”
“I asked about failing, not succeeding.”
“Oh, right,” sniffed Girdleston, tightening his gloves. “How very thorough. If, for some reason, youfailto retain her, if youfailto see her down the aisle, you will receive nothing. Oh, and there is a chance...” he looked knowingly at Declan, “...that the informers who originally brought these charges of abduction and murder of Miss Snow might...revivetheir story?”
And there it was.
Declan gritted his teeth. He’d expected this. Of course the freedom and the money and the job were all linked.
“How can I be accused again,” he said tightly, “if Knightly Snow has been found in France?”
“Well, there’s been asighting, I believe,” said Girdleston. “I cannot say if they’ve actuallyfoundthe chit. Or how long that might take. You’ve not been exonerated. The charges have been dropped. They can just as easily be brought up again.”
Declan swore under his breath and turned away. If he’d had more time, he would’ve been able to find her. But he’d been arrested, and expedited back to England, and languishing in the court and penal system since the girl went missing.
“Not to worry, Huntsman,” the older man said. “I have every confidence in you. You can manage Lady Helena. I would not have come if you couldn’t.”
Declan pivoted to lean against the wall. He refused to look at the man’s calm face as he drew him over a barrel.
Declanhatedbeing drawn over a barrel.
But he was a survivor. He would not jeopardize this open cell door, nor the promise of £500. A large part of surviving was knowing when to sayno, thank you, and when to make a deal with the devil. Declan had run out of options.
“I’ll do it,” he said, turning back. “Now get me the bloody hell out of this hellhole.”
Chapter Two
Lady Helena Lark had run out of options.
She had feigned sickness, perpetrated madness, and applied to be a nun. She’d declared herself too young, too old, too thin, too pale, and too disagreeable in every possible way.
