Page 6 of His Improper Lady

But none of that would stop her from uncovering the secrets of her past. And she was certain she was on the correct path. She had seen the faint glow of truth in the ring, felt the rightness of it in her palm. Her mind had buzzed with the implications.

That was why she’d been distracted in her search, why she’d made those mistakes—she’d never before been so clumsy as to knock a book off a desk, and it had taken her too long to hear the man’s footsteps. She’d managed to get away, leaving only her lantern behind, and no one could trace a common lantern back to her. But the ineptitude was galling.

Desiree yawned, and suddenly weariness swept over her like a tide. She began to undress, undoing the buttons at the neck of her costume in the back and pulling the fitted garment off over her head. She glanced in the mirror as she folded the costume. Her heart began to pound, her body recognizing what was wrong a second before her mind identified it. Her necklace wasn’t lying around her throat.

Her hand flew to her chest and she moved closer to the mirror. The lucky piece she always wore around her neck, the first gambling token she’d won at Brock’s club, was gone, chain and all. Icy fear pierced her. She wasn’t just rusty; she’d committed a ruinous mistake. She’d left something of herself behind.

CHAPTER FOUR

TOM QUICK TROTTED up the steps to the entrance of Broughton House. The first time he’d seen the stately mansion, he’d been eight years old, hungry and dirty. The place was so imposing that at first he’d thought that Reed Moreland had brought him to the bobbies’ headquarters. After all, it would have been the normal thing to happen after the well-dressed man caught Tom picking his pocket.

Instead, Reed had taken him into what was obviously a house, though far grander than anything Tom had ever been inside, and there he’d been fed (to his astounded delight) and bathed (over his strenuous objections) and given a clean set of clothes that had once belonged to Reed himself. Tom had never felt anything as soft as those garments. By that time, Tom had become convinced that he’d been kidnapped by a band of lunatics. He’d told his benefactor that, expecting a blow but needing to maintain his cocky image. All Reed had done was laugh and say Tom was probably right.

Over the years, Tom had become accustomed to the enormity of the duke’s house and grounds in the crowded city, at least enough so that it didn’t make him pause anymore when he turned up the walkway to the house. He’d also managed to train himself to knock at the front door. When he’d started working for Reed, then Olivia, he had headed instinctively to the servants’ door on the side, but finally the family’s badgering had pulled him into line with their determined egalitarian attitude. It was difficult to go against the tide of the Morelands.

A footman opened the door, doing his best to maintain an expression of dignity despite the puppy currently tugging on his trouser leg and growling ferociously. “Mr. Quick. Good day. If you’re looking for Lord Constantine, I believe that he is still in the breakfast room. This way, sir.”

The servant started to escort Tom to the room, trying to unobtrusively shake the determined puppy loose as he did so, with no success. Tom managed to suppress a laugh and said, “That’s all right. I know the way.”

Tom started toward the back hall just as the Duke of Broughton rounded the corner into the entryway. The older man was tall, though his shoulders had a bit of a scholar’s stoop to them, and his hair was almost entirely white save for a small mingling of strands of his original black at the back of his head. Bits of packing straw clung here and there to his well-tailored suit. A magnifying glass hung on a cord around his neck, and a pair of spectacles stuck out of one of his pockets. In one hand he held a large knife. His other arm was courteously given to the woman beside him.

The woman carried herself proudly, her back straight and her head high. What Tom could see of her hair beneath her hat was an iron gray, not a strand out of place. Even though she was too squarely built to achieve the sort of elegance that the duchess displayed, her clothes were expensive and fashionable, if somewhat conservative. She might have been attractive if not for the sour expression on her face.

The duke was saying, “Sorry I couldn’t help you, Tabitha. But I promise I will look into it.”

“If you remember,” the woman replied tartly.

“Certainly, certainly. I’ll tell Smeggars. That’ll do the trick.” The duke looked up and saw Tom. “Why, hullo, Tom.” He smiled at Tom in his usual benign way. “Nice to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too, sir. How are you?”

“Quite well, thank you. I’ve been unpacking a new crate. It had an excellent Cretan knife.” He held out the knife for Tom to examine. “A very nice terra-cotta head, as well—only a bit of the chin knocked off.”

“Very nice, sir.” The knife looked like nothing but a battered old knife to Tom, but the duke was always so pleased about his acquisitions that Tom would never say anything to disappoint him.

“Really, Henry,” said his companion, who clearly did not have the same qualms about disappointing the duke that Tom did. “All this puttering about with old pots and tools is so undignified.”

“Mm, yes, I suppose it is,” Henry replied affably. “Never paid much attention to dignity.”

“Obviously,” his companion said, her gaze turning to the harassed footman, who had finally freed his trousers from the puppy’s mouth and was now trying to catch the pudgy little thing. The puppy, finding it a fine game, darted around, jumping and barking merrily.

“I beg your pardon, I haven’t introduced you to Mr. Quick,” Henry said, oblivious to the noise behind them. “Tabitha, this—”

“For pity’s sake, Henry.” Lady Moreland’s eyes swept over Tom dismissively. “I am not accustomed to being introduced to servants.”

The duke looked taken aback. “Oh, but Tom’s not a servant.” His brow furrowed. “How do you know their names, then?”

She heaved a sigh. “Goodbye, Henry.” She gave him a short nod, adding, “Don’t forget.”

“Yes, of course.” The duke watched her walk away. When the door closed behind her, he turned back to Tom. “Sorry about that. She’s a bit...”

“Haughty?” Tom suggested.

“Precisely.” The duke’s eyes twinkled. “Well, one can’t choose one’s relatives, more’s the pity.” He shrugged. “Ah, well. Are you here to see Con? I believe he’s back there.” He gestured vaguely down the hall. “I must get back to my crate. Good to see you.”

“You, too, sir.” Tom nodded to him, and the duke strode eagerly back down the hallway. Tom turned the other way, heading toward the babble of laughter and voices. There was no telling how many of them were in there; three Morelands could manage to sound like an army of people.

In fact, when he stopped in the doorway, he could see that it was only a few of them—the twins Con and Alex and their wives, along with Megan, holding her youngest daughter, Brigid, while Alex played some sort of hand-slapping game with Brigid’s slightly older sister, Athena.