Page 28 of The Lady’s No Angel

“No,” Angel replied stiffly, trying to capture Lady Della at her most imperious. She was a decent mimic and could copy accents and mannerisms rather well. Still, it must be a good deal easier when one really was the daughter of a duke, but she gave it her best. She drew herself up, glaring at the fellow. “I had thought this a respectable establishment. I did not realise I was likely to be murdered in my bed. My sister-in-law is nigh on hysterical.”

On cue, Milly began whimpering and wailing, sounds of a kind that made the fellow’s eyes widen with alarm.

“Oh! Oh, no. Begging your pardon, madam. I had no wish to cause distress, and I assure you, it’s quite safe. We never had no trouble afore now.”

“Well, you are causing distress. That being the case, I suggest you go away,” she told him in arctic tones.

“Yes,” he agreed hastily, as the wailing inside the room increased by several degrees. “At once.”

Angel was about to close the door but thought better of it. “A bottle of your best brandy and two glasses might suffice to compensate for the horrible ordeal you have put us through.”

Already halfway down the stairs, he agreed to send someone up with it and his footsteps faded away.

Angel closed the door with a sigh and leant against it.

“Bleedin’ hell,” Milly whispered, her palms bracketing her face.

“Your hysterical act was perfect,” Angel told her, clinging to her calm demeanour by a thread.

Milly made a choked sound and sank onto the bed. “It weren’t no act.”

Pushing back a tangled curl that had escaped her pins, Angel let out a soft huff of laughter.

“Who were they, miss?” Milly stared at her, fear making her voice tremble.

Angel opened her mouth but any answer she might have given died in her throat as a heavy knock vibrated through the door. She leapt away from it with a shriek and then sucked in a breath.

“The brandy,” she said weakly, laughing at her own idiocy.

She fixed the stern, imperious expression to her face once more, and returned to the door.

Mr Cleaver filled the opening.

He was sweating and breathless, a large lump was rising on his forehead, and his clothes were rumpled and dirty. He looked disreputable, dangerous, and none too happy.

Angel wanted to kiss him.

“Miss Baxter,” he said, his deep voice so low it thrummed under her skin and seemed to vibrate in places it had no business going. “A word.”

Angel swallowed, recognising with trepidation the glint in his hazel eyes as one that meant business. She glanced over her shoulder at Milly, who shook her head meaningfully.

Stepping forward and forcing Mr Cleaver to move away, Angel strode out and closed the door behind her before Milly could protest.

He silently grasped her arm, towing her along the corridor. Opening a door, he shoved her through it, followed her in, and closed the door behind him.

Angel turned, glaring at him.

“I cannot be in here alone with you,” she whispered in a furious undertone, folding her arms over her chest.

He mirrored her stance and leant back against the door, effectively sealing any means of escape. “You are not alone,” he drawled, jerking his chin towards the fire.

Angel turned to see Toby, curled up on the rug, a blanket covering his narrow frame. He was snoring.

She threw up her hands. “Oh, well, that’s all right, then. A fine chaperone he is.”

Mr Cleaver’s lips quirked. “I thought so. But never mind that. Who the devil were those men?”

Angel’s heart sank. She had rather hoped he’d know and would have some personal reason why they were after him. One that had nothing to do with her.