She wended her way down the lantern-lit passageway, meandered straight past the ladies’ retiring room and on up the marble staircase, leaving her empty glass by a rudely grinning satyr.
A day ago, she had bumped into the not-very-honourable Miss Gibbon on a jaunt to the Tower of London to view the Crown jewels. Having managed to avoid verbally expressing any body parts…or lock her away, Aideen had instead wheedled from the fake swooner the layout of the Gibbon family’s townhouse.
Toadying did not come naturally to Aideen, but every time she’d gushed over the prospect of viewing their elegantly decorated gold drawing room, she’d thought of Cordelia’s glum face; she had to locate those sheep poems.
After counting the doors on the left until she came to the fifth, Aideen lightly knocked, in case a maid was poodling around. No answer came from within and so with a twist of the handle, she opened the door and peered into Lady Gibbon’s bedchamber.
Eugh.
She withdrew for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust.
Blinking, she rounded the door and closed it behind her.
Draped in a plethora of gilt and red, the room was lit by a huge candelabra with winsome nymphs gaily cavorting.
Once, when young, Aideen had mistakenly visited Mrs O’Hare’s brothel. She had thought it was a dressmaker, and assuredly there had been a plethora of sheer material and pretty girls to model the clothes, but the decor had been more ornate than the altar at Waterford Cathedral. This was similar…
With no time to dally, however, Aideen began to methodically snoop for Cordelia’s poems, beginning with the dressing table.
Every time scruples invaded, which was often as she kept encountering frilly jonquil garters and silk stockings, she reminded herself that the woman was a blackmailing witch, and besides, tonight she’d pressed her lithesome body against the Duke of Rakecombe’s like one of Mrs O’Hare’s trollops.
She became engrossed in a chest of drawers that held a stack of IOUs, some of which, curiously, had her acquaintance Lord Winterbourne’s name attached to them.
What on God’s green earth was Jack doing wit– A sudden creak of floorboard caused her to startle.
But her retreat was too slow as a shadow of black descended, whirling her back against a man’s tall shape, a rough hand thrust upon her mouth, halting the shriek.
It could not contain her teeth, however, and she bit into the palm.
A harsh curse ensued but the hand didn’t remove itself. Instead, she was pulled more tightly against a firm, wiry torso, and a solid band pressed against her waist: his other arm and…something else.
She twisted and bit harder, only to induce a grunt and a further hauling.
“Stop wriggling, cherry,” a voice whispered. “But do keep biting, I find it rather pleasant.”
With the words came chocolate. Rich and dark.
Aideen continued to wriggle but released her teeth – the arrogant tongue-pad – and pushing her hands out, she discovered the firm press against her waist was his devilish cane.
Naturally, she knew what that cane concealed as her Uncle Seamus had crafted the piece.
A snarling silver dog with green eyes sat atop the ebony weapon, guarding its secrets. She’d even polished the jade orbs herself. It was how she’d discovered the duke was a spy, as her uncle had always fashioned special pieces for the War Department. Secret commissions with detailed compartments and fiendish traps.
“Remove your poisonous cane from my waist, you foul…duke,” she mumbled against his large palm. Really, why did he turn her insults to mush? “And why do you call me cherry all the time?”
The hand removed itself, but a finger loitered, brushing her bottom lip.
Silence fell for a moment.
Aideen was acquainted with at least five manoeuvres that would remove his other arm from around her waist, as Uncle Seamus had taught her many essentials for life in London, but for some reason she stilled, suffering that rubbing finger and awaiting his answer.
“It was actually Winterbourne who gave you the name. My cherry itch.”
Oh, that was disappointing. And made her sound like fleas on a hound.
“But it suits you,” he murmured huskily as his touch outlined her lower lip. “What will you be today – sweet or tart, I wonder?”
She bit the wandering finger and thumped an elbow into his gizzards.
