Miss Harland strode into his study in the plain pink dress that made her look biddable, wearing a smile where he’d expected a scowl.
Her eyes skimmed the papers on his desk. “Should I make space, or will you?” She tilted her head towards the door, voice dropping. “Mr Beattie would insist on a tray table. One more cross on his list, and I’ll be demoted to the stables.”
“Yet a home for the depraved suits you better.”
She set down the tray. “Careful, Mr Hawke. That almost sounded like an invitation to stay.”
“You’ll not sleep a night in this house,” he said flatly. But even as he spoke, he imagined passing her door in the dark. Wondering if she slept. If she dreamed of revenge or of him. “We’ll discuss your removal once I’ve finished here.”
“Then I shall retreat and prepare my terms.” Like a general in training, she swept from the room, humming her little tune as she closed the door.
“Terms?” he grumbled. As if he’d agree to her demands. “We’re not pirates haggling on the high seas. Perhaps it’s time I bared my teeth.”
Ramsey chuckled. “You look like a man in sore need of a bite.”
What he wanted was to hate Miss Harland as he did her father, but the minx had charm and courage in abundance. He could not name another soul bold enough to knock on his door, let alone stage a coup.
“One has to admire her tenacity,” he said.
“When you left for London, you said she was as docile as a dove.”
“Chalk it up to the only time I’ve been wrong.” A mistake he would rectify once he’d finished preparing for the Masque.
Charlotte was meant to guide her. To teach her how to hold the world in her palm without ever taking a man to her bed.
Independence was the reward for playing her part in his charade. So what the hell was she doing at Shadowmere?
“What does she want from me?” he muttered, then cursed, realising he’d said it aloud. “What possessed her to think this was a safe option?”
“Happen she likes the taste of danger on her lips.”
He wished he’d never mentioned the kiss.
“It was barely a peck.” Yet he had threaded his fingers through her hair, bunched her skirts in his fist like he needed her bare beneath him. “Forgettable.”
Ramsey rubbed his jaw, as he always did when weighing lies on the scales of justice. “So forgettable you can’t even think straight.”
“That’s what happens when plans go awry.” He should be celebrating, raising a glass to his mother, reminding the world that those who crossed him paid the price. “Let’s go over the list, so I can finish what I started, and see Harland ruined.”
Ramsey shifted in his chair. “You’re sure there’s been no mistake?”
Mistake? The word had no place in his vocabulary.
“Trust me. I never gave the chit a second thought after I left the ballroom. Her being here is nothing but a temporary inconvenience.”
Ramsey’s lips twitched. “I meant Harland being the enemy. You’re certain this old neighbour can be trusted?”
His mind turned to the letter, to the tremble in his hand as he accepted the folded parchment, hatred rising. The villain finally had a name. One he would grind into the dirt.
“The men who work for the Order don’t make mistakes.”
And they knew better than to test his resolve.
“Besides, when I questioned Mrs Seagrove, she described my mother down to the mole on her cheek and the white streak in her hair.”
He’d looked the woman in the eye. She’d not wavered.
“She might have been persuaded to lie,” Ramsey said.
