Page 51 of A Problem Princess

“I’m not a guest.” Clayton stopped in front of the man, and even as tall as he was, he had to tilt back his head to meet the guard eye to eye. “I have a knife up my left sleeve and two spent pistols in my holster but am otherwise unarmed. So is she.”

The guard slanted a glance down at Cordelia as if he believed she could be hiding a canon under the tentlike coat.

“I need to see Madame Noir. Immediately.” When the guard made no move to step aside, Clayton added, “Tell her an old friend from the Home Office is here to interrogate her, handcuffs and all. She’ll understand.”

Cordelia blinked. What on earth kind of message was that?

Whatever it was, it didn’t surprise the guard.

Clayton added, “Tell her I’ll meet her upstairs.”

Then Clayton scooped Cordelia into his arms, pushed past the guard, and carried her up the rear stairs. He didn’t bother knocking before throwing open the servants’ door to a set of rooms taking up the front half of the top floor. He kicked it closed behind him and paused only to throw the lock before carrying her across the large room to a gold brocade sofa and setting her down. Immediately, he went to the window and yanked closed the drapes.

She looked around. Gold brocade settees and drapes, yards of purple silk draping the walls, the finest crafted mahogany furniture including what she would bet her life was a Chippendale writing desk and dressing table—thiswas not an average London home. A peal of laughter echoed through the building from the floor below, followed by what sounded like…the crack of a horse whip?

“Whatisthis place?” she asked.

“A brothel.” He helped himself to a generous pour of liquor from the tray of drinks on a console table near the door. “And the last place anyone would think to look for a missing princess.”

A brothel.Of course it was.But tonight’s attack had numbed her so much that the unprecedented scandal implicit in his explanation barely registered. All she could do in response was nod and sink further into the warmth of his coat, which smelled comfortingly of him.

He carried the glass to her and held it out. When she shook her head, he insisted.

With hands that shook so hard she feared she’d splash the drink everywhere, she accepted it and slowly raised it to her mouth. Whiskey. It burned down her throat, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as she coughed.

She mumbled through her fingers, “What are we going to do?”

He knelt in front of her and rested his hand on her knee. She nearly sobbed again from the sensation of strength and assurance she felt in his caring touch.

“We stay here until I’m able to learn more about what happened tonight,” he said. “We need to separate our friends from our enemies and know whom to trust.”

He slid his hand slowly down her leg, over her calf to her ankle. Just as with the announcement that he’d brought her to a brothel, she didn’t have the wherewithal—or the desire—to slap his hand away.

He gently slipped off her shoe, then slowly circled her foot in the air to test her ankle, his large hands nearly engulfing her foot from toes to ankle. Resting her foot in his left palm, he reached up his sleeve and withdrew a slender knife.

She gaped at him. “You really did have a knife up your sleeve!”

“I never tease about weapons.” His grim gaze met hers. “I don’t want to risk hurting your ankle further by pulling off your stocking. I apologize for having to do this.”

“Do wh—”

He expertly sliced the knife tip through the silk, from toes to low calf. She gasped in surprise.

“The stocking was in the way,” he explained. He sheathed the knife and peeled the blue silk away from her leg. He lightly traced his fingertips across her bare skin and once more felt her ankle as he gently turned it.

“Exactly like I was in the way tonight,” she said quietly.

He said nothing, but for one heartbeat, his hands stilled.

She shook her head, realizing her mistake. “No, not me. No one would attack a house filled with British cabinet members only to harm me. We know that much at least.”

He continued his examination. “I’m not certain we do.”

“But it couldn’t have been because of me,” she reasoned. “Uncle Ernest was scheduled to be the guest of honor. I was a last-minute addition.”

“I know. So did others inside the palace.”

“Who?”