Page 54

The fire in the grate had burned low, casting a dull glow over the drawing room.

Marjory sat curled in a chair. Her embroidery hoop rested against her lap with her needle halfway through an uneven stitch.

Her eyelids grew heavy, and her vision blurred as the thread slipped clumsily through the fabric.

She blinked hard, trying to focus. Just one more row, and then I’ll go up.

The warmth of the fire wrapped around her like a blanket, coaxing her into the lull of sleep. A thud sounded in another room.

Her head jerked up. She frowned, straining to listen. It had been muffled as if something heavy had fallen in the next room.

Likely one of the servants.

She glanced at the clock. It was the wee hours of the morning. The staff was long abed. Even the scullery maids wouldn’t be up for a couple more hours.

A sharp, muffled curse broke the silence.

Marjory stiffened. That had not been the house settling nor the distant creak of a shutter shifting in the night breeze. It had been a voice—low and distinctly male.

She set her embroidery aside as all traces of sleepiness fled. Pushing to her feet, she made her way to the side table and lit one of the small chamber sticks. Its golden glow pushed back the shadows and fortified her courage. With her pulse thrumming in her ears, she stepped into the hallway.

Perhaps it was Norman. He kept late hours when the mood struck him, pacing his study in deep contemplation of one matter or another. It would not be unheard of for him to come downstairs without bothering to light a lamp, relying instead on the moonlight filtering through the high windows.

And yet something about the noise did not sit right.

In the country, she might have thought an animal had slipped in through an open door or found its way down from the attic.

Once, a wild boar had stormed through the pantries of old Mr. Weatherby’s estate, wreaking absolute havoc before the groundskeeper had chased it out. The gossip had been endless.

But this was London. Save for the occasional stray cat, there were no wild creatures prowling through the corridors of Mayfair townhomes.

Another curse, clearer this time, carried through the hallway.

Besides, animals don’t utter expletives in the dark.

Marjory let out a slow breath, shifting the candle to her other hand. Honestly. If Norman bruised his shins because he insisted on stumbling about in the dark like a half-blind fool, that was entirely his own fault.

“For heaven’s sake, Norman,” she muttered under her breath, nudging the door open. “If you insist on roaming about at ungodly hours, you might at least?—”

A gust of air rushed toward her as the door swung inward, and in an instant, the tiny flame of her candle guttered and died, plunging the study into darkness.

Marjory froze.

The faint glow from the hallway barely illuminated the threshold, leaving the vast room ahead of her thick with shadow. She could make out vague shapes—the bulk of Norman’s desk, the towering bookshelves lining the walls, and the silhouette of a man far larger than her cousin.

She barely had time to register the breadth of his shoulders before he moved. Before her scrambling thoughts could register more than the sheer wrongness of it, he was upon her.

The looming presence, the way he filled the space, sent a jolt of panic through her.

In an instant, she was a little girl again, trying to mask the fearful hitch in her breathing as she hid behind Bridget’s skirts.

Their father’s voice would roar through the halls, each bellow rattling the windows and Marjory’s heart in equal measure.

Years of survival, of knowing when to make herself small, surged through her like a ghostly warning.

She stepped back, gaze dropping out of habit.

Be still, silent, unseen.

A large, gloved hand covered her mouth, firm but not bruising. Meant to silence, not harm.

She tried to wrench away—too late.

“Shh. I will not harm you.”

He pivoted in one smooth, practiced motion, pulling her hard against his chest. An arm circled her waist, unyielding as iron. She pried at the man’s arm, clawing at the rough wool beneath her fingers. He smelled of spicy cloves and freshly aired linens.

Her skirts brushed his legs, a grotesque parody of a dance, and she realized she was alone in the dark with a stranger who could do anything he wished.

Her heart thundered against her ribs. Then, with a swift jerk of his boot, he kicked the door shut, plunging them into shadows—and sealing her off from escape.

This man was not her father, but her stomach clenched in that old, primal dread. Some reckless part of her recognized he was different—more controlled, more deliberate. He was cloves, clean linen, and calm control, not stale tobacco, rage, and brandy.

Through the haze of panic, she forced herself to think.

He could not keep his hand over her mouth forever, but if she screamed, by the time anyone heard her, he’d be long gone.

She would have nothing but her word against the empty air, and no one would believe her.

Worse, they might assume she’d been compromised.

She could hear Norman’s irritated sigh already, Verity’s fussing, her mother’s pale, frightened face as the footmen searched the house and found nothing.

“Will you scream if I remove my hand?” her assailant asked. His voice was rich and velvety with a cultured accent of a gentleman.

Marjory shook her head. Her only option was to keep her head and learn all she could about this mysterious gentlemanly housebreaker.

Hesitantly, he removed his hand. It hovered just inches away from her mouth, ready to silence her if need be. When Marjory didn’t cry out, he dropped his hand but kept her pinned against him.

“I simply need a piece of paper, and I shall be gone. Can you stand if I release you, or will you swoon?” He loosened his hold a fraction and glanced down at her in the moonlight.

Marjory swallowed, tilting her chin just enough to meet his gaze—or what little of it she could make out in the dim light.

His face remained largely in shadow, but the faintest slant of moonlight from the uncovered window caught the sharp angle of a cheekbone, the suggestion of a firm jaw.

There was a whisper of something dangerous there, but the unmistakable curve of amusement on his lips softened it.

She huffed, more indignant than afraid now. “If all you required was paper, you need only have asked. I have plenty in my writing desk upstairs.”

His chest vibrated against her back as he let out a soft laugh. “How generous of you. Perhaps next time, I shall knock.”

He released her suddenly, the warmth of his hold vanishing as he stepped back into the shadows.

Freed, Marjory set her feet to run but remained rooted to the spot. The mystery of it—of him —thrummed in the air between them. She assured herself it was practicality that urged her to learn more about this midnight visitor and not the delicious excitement his presence stirred within her.

He rifled through the desk, occasionally examining something in the weak moonlight. His movements were smooth and efficient, not the clumsy desperation of a common thief.

She wet her lips and crossed her arms, steadying her voice into something cool and unimpressed. “Is there a specific piece of paper you’re looking for, or shall I have the Earl send down his entire correspondence?”

At her words, he glanced up with a slow, irreverent smile that was unmistakable even in the dimness. “You’re quite the obliging hostess,” he remarked, returning to his search. “Most women would have screamed by now.”

“Perhaps you only make a habit of startling dull women,” she shot back.

He chuckled. “A fair point. And I take it you are no such creature?”

“I do not believe in swooning over housebreakers or other trifles.”

He laughed out loud at that, and Marjory edged closer to the door. “You consider housebreakers mere trifles?”

Marjory shrugged though she stood in the shadows. He hadn’t noticed her moving to the door— or he had and simply didn’t care .

“You haven’t answered my question,” she pressed, focusing on her intent to discover more about the man. “What is it you’re looking for?”

He sighed with an edge of irritation as he moved to yet another drawer in the desk. “Do you interrogate all your midnight callers, or am I to feel especially honored?”

“I prefer to know the names of the men who accost me under cover of darkness,” she replied, arching a brow.

He tsked, still sorting through the drawers. “You assume I would be foolish enough to give you my name.”

Marjory reached the door. Her hand closed around the handle as her heart thundered in her ears. She still knew nothing of the man, but prudence urged her to flee. Her grip tightened on the door handle.

A satisfied sound hummed from the stranger’s throat as he examined a document. “Ah. There we are.”

He tucked the paper into the inner pocket of his jacket then turned to her fully, unhurried, his movements deliberate. “Well, My Lady,” he murmured with a trace of amusement in his voice, “it’s your move now.”

“I do not play games in the dark with men I do not know,” Marjory snapped.

He laughed again, that low, rich chuckle that rumbled in his chest. “Oh, you are a little wildcat, aren’t you?

” He crossed the room, navigating it easily despite the darkness.

“While playing games in the dark can be a most diverting activity, for tonight I must take my leave—unless you intend to open the door and scream the house down?”

His hand covered hers on the doorknob as he pinned her with his shadowed gaze. Her breath came in short bursts, and her stays felt abominably tight. She swallowed hard, cursing herself as she wondered about games in the dark. Was it fear or excitement that burned through her?

“Now,” he continued, crowding her against the door, “why don’t you just run along to bed and wonder if I was real or just a dream conjured from the embers.”

The dismissal irked her, and the flash of anger cleared the dizzying haze from her mind. She moved to grab the letter from within the man’s jacket pocket. He shifted just enough to cause her reach to go astray. Capturing her hand, he pinned it against his chest.

“What have you taken?” she demanded, keeping her chin held high. “I will not allow you to ruin this family. Not now. Not after?—”

The man laid a single finger against her lips, silencing her.

Her breath caught as he traced a slow, deliberate path along her jawline with a fleeting caress that sent something hot and unwelcome curling through her belly.

Her heart, which had been pounding furiously, gave a traitorous stutter at his touch.

She leaned back against the door, locking her knees lest she become one of those ridiculous swooning women.

He bent toward her. Marjory quickly turned her head away, having no intention of being kissed by a ruffian.

His quiet laughter mocked her as he whispered against her ear, “I am not that kind of criminal, little wildcat.”

His grip tightened over hers on the door handle as he turned the knob. With one swift motion, he used the door to pivot her aside and slipped into the corridor. Off-balance, Marjory staggered after him, her slippers scuffing the polished floor.

By the time she reached the foyer, he was already at the front entrance, sliding the bolt free. Her footsteps seemed to echo like pistol shots across the marble tiles, sounding far louder than they had any right to be.

He paused just long enough to sketch a mocking bow. As he straightened, a shaft of moonlight from the transom revealed dark, curling hair and a jagged white scar along his neck, just above the collar of his jacket. Without another word, he opened the door and slipped silently into the night.

Marjory leaned against the wall for support. Her heart thudded in her chest. The faint scent of cloves lingered behind him, and she pressed her knuckles to her lips, remembering the unsettling warmth of his touch.

She scowled at the absurdity of it all—criminals were supposed to skulk in the shadows, not stride out the front door as though welcomed guests. She pushed away from the wall and glared at the door as if it had been somehow at fault for the night’s misdeeds.

“Little wildcat, indeed,” she muttered and straightened her skirts.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Whoever he was, she would find out, and she would show him claws sharp enough to make him regret ever crossing her path.