ten
VIOLANTE HAD FORGOTTEN what it meant to sleep in a soft, warm bed and to eat until her belly was full. Or not to be constantly afraid of being attacked by either rats or thugs.
A week had passed since Keith had welcomed her into his house, and she hadn’t seen him once. She’d only caught glimpses of him entering or leaving the house. He’d meant it when he’d said she wouldn’t need to talk to him, which made her feel guilty.
If she was going to be honest, she’d accepted his help because she was desperate, and that hurt her pride, or what was left of it. She’d got better at stealing, but selling the booty and negotiating its price afterwards was her bane. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Getting a good deal and a lot of money from stolen jewels and watches wasn’t a skill she possessed. She tried to negotiate a price, but the dealers at the black market were more expert than she was and never backed down from their offers. She needed the money. Any coin was precious. It was difficult to think straight with an empty stomach, and she didn’t want to return to that life.
On top of that, George’s gang would kill her—or worse—the moment she returned to the streets. Staying at Keith’s house would allow her to vanish from the streets for a while and recover her strength. Pride was useless when it came to surviving.
A pang of guilt bit her again. A different type of guilt. She was in the house of the man who had denounced her father and started the chaos that had destroyed her life. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. On a cold, logical level and after five years, she understood that Keith had done the right thing by going to the police. Her father had been guilty. No point in denying that. The evidence had been overwhelming.
But on an emotional level, she was a complete disaster. One moment, she wanted to yell at Keith to leave her alone. The next, she wanted to weep and beg him to forgive her for what she’d said that day.
Oh, well. Her predicament didn’t have a quick solution.
But then again, the first thing she’d learnt in the streets was to take advantage of whatever she could without hesitation. If Keith wanted to help, she would let him, and then she would…she had no idea. Should she leave, stay, or ask him to help her find a job? Did she want to ask more from him? Goodness, her head ached.
She rolled up the sleeves of the oversized shirt. It washisshirt. She was sure of it. The thought started a stirring in her belly. A stirring she hadn’t experienced in years and that had no business bothering her.
Many things had changed in the past years, but Keith’s fresh citrus scent hadn’t. Even the blue dressing gown belonged to him. She’d worn nothing but his shirts and dressing gowns for days now, and she didn’t mind. They were warm, comfortable, and in a better state than her frayed clothes.
She inched open the door of her bedroom and listened to the noises of the house. Keith was likely out again. Only two servants worked for him. Mrs. Collins, the housekeeper, who also prepared the meals, and Murray, a man who worked as a footman, butler, valet, and whatever else the house required. Not a sound came from downstairs. Perhaps the housekeeper was in the kitchen and Murray was out on some errands. She wouldn’t know. She’d slept so soundly in the past days that not even a thunderstorm had woken her up.
For a lord, Keith didn’t surround himself with a staff of maids and footmen.
She tiptoed out of the bedroom. Boredom, curiosity, and restless energy urged her to take a tour of the house. She didn’t plan to steal anything and wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she couldn’t help but feel like an intruder. She’d been cooped up in the bedroom for a week, eating and sleeping. There was nothing wrong with her exploring her new environment, was there?
Rich-brown wood wainscoting panelled the walls, and a thick carpet covered the polished floor. But there was an astonishing lack of decorations. No porcelain vases, paintings, or frills. She appreciated it, and it fit Keith’s spartan personality. She knocked on the door to his bedroom. No answer. She pushed the door open, wondering if she would find him sleeping in his bed.
The townhouse didn’t have many rooms, but Keith’s bedroom was bigger than hers. She stepped inside, pausing.Tarnation. She hadn’t asked him if he had a wife. She would have noticed a woman coming and going by now, wouldn’t she? No, in the state of unconsciousness she’d been, she wouldn’t have noticed anyone, and since the house was equipped with modern plumbing and a water closet, she didn’t even need a personal maid or a chamber pot.
No, her heart didn’t pound faster at the possibility he could be married. She didn’t care one way or another. Her juvenileinfatuation for him was long gone, buried underneath years of starvation and humiliation.
The hem of the dressing gown brushed the floor as she walked further into the room. From the looks of his room, if she wanted to steal something, she would be disappointed. He didn’t keep anything precious in his room aside from yet another watch and fine clothes. But then again, he didn’t come from money. He understood the real value of life. So did she. She’d loved pretty trinkets and gowns years ago. Now she felt rich when she could have dinner.
The writing desk in the corner was overwhelmed with documents, bills, and letters. Some letters were in Italian, and she couldn’t help but take a peek. Since she hadn’t seen him for the whole week, she hadn’t had the chance to ask him any questions. Her curiosity was justified. Yes, it was.
Keith had gathered information about an Italian aristocrat. She wondered why.
Who was this Paul with whom he corresponded regularly? Could it be Paul Wellington, the stableboy who had stolen from her father? Just thinking about that traitorous, false friend made her blood boil.
“Did you find anything interesting?” Keith’s voice jolted her.
“Gah!” She dropped the letter and gripped the chair, ready to use it as a shield. Sloppy of her. The good food and comforts had already softened her senses.
“I’m sorry.” She straightened the stack of documents from where she’d taken the letter, her face heating. “I didn’t mean to steal anything. I know I shouldn’t have come here.”
He folded his arms over his chest, straining the fabric of his jacket. “I wasn’t accusing you of stealing.”
“I was curious. But I shouldn’t have snooped around. Forgive me.”
“Apology accepted.” His gaze flickered over her exposed bare leg for a moment.
The shirt covered her to her knees, leaving her ankles and calves naked, and the dressing gown was gaping open on the front. Not appropriate. She pulled the lapels and tied the sash to stop the show. Well, a meagre show, that is. She doubted he considered her ravishing. Her father had always said that only dogs liked bones.
She stepped away from his desk. “I thought you were out.” Ouch. Too late she realised what she’d said.
