Page 12 of The Seduction of Viscount Vice

“I wouldn’t call myself a visitor. Would you, Ramsey? After everything?”

The older man hesitated, then his shoulders slumped. “No, my lord. But if you’ve come seeking vengeance for the, er, knee incident, I’m afraid I cannot admit you.”

Vice almost smiled, even as he appreciated the rock-solid loyalty displayed. “I’ve better things to do with my time. And fear not, my trousers are now lined with lead.”

Ramsey coughed, his eyes crinkling suspiciously at the corners. “Very good, sir. Lady Mairi is in the ground-floor front parlor. I’ll bring her a tea tray in one hour and will expect her to be in good spirits.”

Acknowledging the warning with a brief nod, Vice strode past him and made his way inside the townhouse. The disarray was just as bad indoors with half-opened boxes, woodchips and dust piles, collections of fabric swatches, and rooms full of all sorts of exotic, high-quality furniture pieces. The more he saw, the more he was convinced his investigator was correct. Mairi and the others were definitely setting up some sort of business. Not a chance all this could be purely for domestic purposes, and with her comments about stage-worthy breeches at the Castlereaghs’, his curiosity reached fever pitch.

One question remained. Just what the hell were they up to?

…

“Ma’am, has a decision been made yet?”

Mairi paused in her sweeping up of wood chips left by some unruly carpenters to glance at their lone parlor maid. Cleaning was a horrid job, but after Yvette’s raging temper at the renovation bills and potential staffing costs, it had been decided that the extra men and women hired for Worldly wouldn’t start until the following week.

“On what?”

The maid held up two practically identical swatches of brown fabric. “It’s for the cushions, ma’am. Egyptian brown or cinnamon?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose to ward off a thundering headache, Mairi sighed. “You know I leave that to Ramsey. He has a far better eye than I do.”

“Begging your pardon, but he said the vote is split, and yours will decide the result. A few of the footmen have put a wager on it, too.”

Oh God.

“Let me have a closer look,” she muttered, peering at the swatches. This was a test she had no hope of passing. They were brown. Both very nice browns, but bloody brown all the same. “Er…cinnamon?”

“Oh dear. Mr. Ramsey chose Egyptian brown.” The maid bit her lip.

“Of course,” Mairi said hastily, willing to agree to anything that might end the conversation. “That is what I meant to say. Look how warm it appears when the sunlight catches it.”

The maid curtsied with a look of pure relief and left her alone.

Flexing her shoulders, Mairi allowed herself a moment to admire her surroundings. Yes, the townhouse needed a fair amount of scrubbing and repainting, and it certainly wasn’t Portman Square, but they had all loved the three-story brick Charlotte Street residence the moment they’d seen it. Large windows to welcome the sun, intricate plasterwork, solid wooden floors, and a charming wrought-iron second-floor balcony just wide enough for seductive interludes.

Much like the one at the Castlereaghs’. Well, almost a seductive interlude. If bloody Iain had actually let her come. She’d had a sleepless night, even trying to ease her aching pussy with two fingers, but instead of helping, it only made it worse. Her body wanted the real thing.

And now, quite ridiculously, it felt like forever since she’d seen him. But she couldn’t risk that, instead needing to make herself scarce for a while. Dressing up was one thing, but explaining to an English magistrate why a Scottish woman who’d spent a decade in Paris kept posing as a footman in the homes of important noblemen was definitely not something she wanted to experience.

Yet it was almost impossible to concentrate on activities here. Yvette spent most afternoons in her chamber claiming fatigue, so Mairi had to clean, supervise tradesmen, record and approve all expenditure, and interview prospective staff. The heavy workload each day stretching from dawn until late at night left her nearly doubled over in pain—her back and shoulders cramped, her hands red and raw, and her eyes and nose dripping from the dust and woodchips. If she’d had the energy, she would have hurled a bucket through a window. Or cried for several hours. This was the life she’d hoped to leave behind forever in Paris, where she had been silent and sore and miserable and lonely. It was even worse now, when all she could think about was Iain.

With him, she played with fire. He could make her forget her own name with his touch. Saw into her soul as if it were a damned window. Nothing she did shocked him—well, apart from her midnight escape to France. And the regrettable knee to the groin. But it was his own bloody fault. If he actually behaved like most Englishmen after being here so many years—wore perfume, carried a lacy handkerchief, and spoke in that cold, clipped way—she could treat him as no more than a rival. Unfortunately, curse his stubborn Highlander hide, he actually reveled in who he was. No elocution lessons to soften the brogue. No military-short cut to lessen the impact of his auburn hair. And definitely no foppish affectations.

The sound of heavy footsteps behind her startled her out of her foolish daydream, and she quickly began sweeping again. “I’ll be finished in a few minutes, Ramsey, and then we can move in the other furniture. I still think the Queen Anne chaise would look better over by the window.”

“Your decision, of course. Although the direct sunlight will fade the Egyptian brown irritatingly fast.”

Mairi gripped her broom handle so hard she almost snapped it in half. “What…what on earth are you doing here?”

“Darling, I’m wounded.” Iain sauntered past her and lounged against a carved oak desk. “No hospitality for a fellow Scot? Especially when here you are, playing ladylike in an actual gown.”

“Pah. I can’t wear breeches all the time, more’s the pity,” she managed, trying to calm her racing heart. The fact he had discovered her sanctuary was one thing, but looking so perfectly handsome in his fawn trousers, plain linen shirt, and black jacket was a far greater threat to her sanity. “How did you find me? And how do you know the cushion swatch is Egyptian brown?”

He shrugged. “I may or may not have instructed someone to follow you. You aren’t the only one who can employ underhanded spying tactics…”

Mairi winced.