Page 7 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke

She made her way up the rickety stairs and then paused at the very top to turn back and look at him, fidgeting uneasily when he continued to glare at her.

“I, ah, just wanted to ask that if you see Whiteson, please do not hurt him,” she began. “He is a black cat, you see, but he has the sweetest temper, although he is rather mischievous. Do not worry, though,” she added, shaking her hands before her. “I assure you that he can help you get rid of the, er…pests on your lands. He is quite useful in other ways, you know.”

Now, what did I just say? Did I just imply he had a rodent problem once more?

She felt the heat creep up her cheeks when he did not even deign to reply, so Phoebe did what she thought was best—she whirled around, and clutching at her skirts, began to run back towards Townsend House. She did not turn back or slow down until she had managed to climb over the wall and was safe in her own garden once more.

Charles had never before had a more awkward interaction with a female of his species, and he certainly had many of them before Miss Phoebe Townsend crashed into him moments ago.

He had initially thought her to be an intruder—and she certainly was that, though not the kind that he had been expecting, to be truthful.

For one, she was rather clumsy. He must have seen her stumble over the stairs at leastthreetimes going up and it was not a very lengthy staircase. On the contrary, it was rather short, one that could be breached with but a few steps.

Spies and assassins moved with far more grace than Miss Phoebe Townsend did.

And another thing, she simply talked too much. One could even say that she rambled on and on about her damned cat and how he must have found the mice on his property rather tempting, for about nineteen words too long.

A woman who tried to kill him once had also tried to distract him, but she had been much more seductive than…awkward.

Of course, there was the off chance that she could have been lying about everything. It could all have just been an act that shehad put on so that he would lower his guard and she could find the perfect opportunity to strike…

Just then, he heard a soft purr and felt something rub sinuously against his leg, rumbling in contentment as it did so. Surprised, Charles looked down to find a black cat happily rubbing its body against his ankle.

“Apparently, she was telling the truth,” he muttered. “And you must be Whiteson.”

The cat let out a meow in the affirmative.

“Your mistress was not the most creative at naming you.”

This time, it let out an indignant scoff and Charles sighed.

“Very well, you may help yourself to some mice,” he relented. “But do not finish them all off. You have to leave some to maintain the ambiance of the room.”

He gingerly shook the cat off his leg and walked back up and out of the trapdoor. He waited for the cat—Whiteson—to make its way out, before closing it behind him. This time, however, he made sure to lock it.

He would not risk the likes of Miss Phoebe Townsend inadvertently stumbling upon his secrets once again.

In fact, it would be more prudent to keep an eye on the young miss for a while. Heaven only knew what sort of troubles she might get into…

CHAPTER FOUR

June 1815

Wentworth Park

Charles Montgomery was of the particular belief that an orderly life was the key to a peaceful existence—or at least one that afforded him a modicum of peace. Having everything in its proper place and done at the proper time made it easier for him to spot the discrepancies that often cropped up in his life.

Like last night, when he had deviated from his routine and ended up having toescortMiss Phoebe Townsend off his lands…

If a simple-minded woman can find her way inside, how much more a skilled assailant?

It was a possibility he could not countenance, which was why he—and the rest of his household—had been forced to stay up for most of the night, searching every nook and cranny in the entireestate to see if any other intruders managed to find their way in, human or feline.

“Are you sure you have looked everywhere?” he asked one of the footmen, a man named Gibson with a stocky build and a face that looked as if it had been handily bashed in one too many times.

“Positive, milord,” Gibson replied as he followed his master from the bedchamber to the breakfast hall. The man did not walk so much as hestomped, his every footfall threatening to put a dent into the floor.

“Have you also checked the rest of the walls? The perimeter fence?”