Page 8 of The Dangerous Lord

“We’ll do it right away⁠—”

“Very well, lads,” Mrs. Box said, the edges of her thin lips twitching from the urge to smile. “You may clean it up. James, run and fetch a mop. Georgie, you can use that bucket you happen to have handy.”

She faced Ian, her smile breaking out over her face. “Thank you, sir, for bein’ so understandin’. They’re wild boys sometimes, but they can be dears when they want.”

He tried to imagine that and failed. “I gather they don’t like Mr. Winston.”

“To be honest, sir, none of us do. And speakin’ of that, the article ain’t quite ready, but you can go on up and wait for it.” She glanced back to where the boys were spreading more snow than they picked up. “Do you mind findin’ your way yourself, luv? If I don’t keep an eye on them, they’ll have the whole foyer slicker than a cow’s spit by the time they’re through.”

“It’s no trouble.” It might give him a chance to glimpse Lord X unobserved.

“The first door to your right upstairs.” Mrs. Box pointed up to the next floor. “Go on in. It’s open.”

“Thank you.” He hurriedly mounted the stairs.

When he found the room, he started to enter, then halted in the doorway. He must have misunderstood the housekeeper’s directions. This room contained a woman, a petite young thing standing before a desk with her profile to him. He studied the profile with interest. She had a strong jawline and dramatic coloring, all russets and burnished ivory instead of the shell-pink and alabaster so popular among young ladies these days.

She must be the boys’ sister, Lissy. Judging from her size, she was probably only half his age, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Her hair was what drew him, a welter of cinnamon curls haphazardly piled atop her head and held in place by two crossed knitting needles. He’d never seen a female so unconcerned about her appearance. Indeed, the hem of her azure dress was soiled and her shoes could use a cobbler’s services.

Then she bent to open a desk drawer, and his mouth went dry. My God, what a derriere, its sweet curves perfectly outlined beneath the thin muslin of her gown. It was perverse of him to look, but how could he not? She might be young, but she already possessed the well-proportioned figure of a courtesan. No wonder Mr. Winston gawked.

It took all his self-control to wrench his gaze away and scan the hall for another open door. There was none. Thinking to ask the young woman to direct him, he cleared his throat.

Just as he registered the fact that she was writing something with the ink-stained fingers described by her brothers, she said without turning, “Come in, sir. I need only to make this one little correction, and then you can take it.”

Two things hit him at once. One, her calm, assured voice indicated she wasn’t as young as he’d thought. And two, she was obviously expecting a visitor.

Mr. Winston.

Bloody hell. He chided himself for his slow-wittedness. Lord X was a woman.

Chapter Three

A certain knight’s lady should beware her husband’s dalliance with an opera singer notorious for her open hands and closed heart. Rumor has it that the thrush angles for a castle and will not mind drowning the reigning peacock in the moat to get it.

Lord X, The Evening Gazette, December 8, 1820

Felicity scratched out a word, then scribbled another in the margin. “I’m sorry I’m so late with it,” she threw out over her shoulder as she scanned the page for other errors. “It’s been a frenzied morning.”

A masculine voice, smooth as good French brandy, answered. “Take your time, madam. I’m enjoying the view.”

The instant the man’s insolent meaning registered, she whirled around, preparing to give this new employee of Mr. Pilkington’s the same sharp set-down she’d given Mr. Winston on his first day. Then she froze. The man with the cool, collected gaze who stood outside the door to her study was definitely not from the Gazette.

The Viscount St. Clair. She would recognize him anywhere.

Drat, drat, and double-drat. What was he doing here? Clearly Mrs. Box had mistaken him for Mr. Pilkington’s man and sent him up. But that didn’t explain why a titled lord would call on her.

He smiled, or rather his mouth did. The rest of his expressionless face didn’t indicate why he’d come. He stepped into the room. “I take it you know who I am.”

She certainly did. Though she’d never seen him this close, she’d noticed him at countless social occasions. Who wouldn’t notice a man like that, nearly as tall as two of the triplets laid end to end? Besides, few men filled out their coats and breeches so well in this age. And few men were so obviously not dandies. His face with its sharp angles and rough lines provoked comment wherever he went, especially when coupled with the olive complexion he’d inherited from his Spanish mother.

Not to mention those eyes ... the exotic hue of India ink with pupils that seemed to spiral down into a black soul. They weren’t called “devil’s eyes” for nothing. Women either shrank from them or lost themselves in the depths ...

She shook herself. She wouldn’t be losing herself in those depths. What was wrong with her?

Yes, she knew him only too well after following him down Waltham Street last week. Could that be why he was here? Because of the mention in last week’s column?

How could that be? He couldn’t possibly know she was Lord X. Mr. Pilkington guarded her identity well. Nor had Lord St. Clair any reason to protest her article. Men of his ilk loved having their mistresses praised.