Chapter 7

7

Most of the wedding guests were scheduled to arrive on the morrow. However, Lady Philippa Winterbourne insisted on coming a day early. One did not argue with the Duchess of Dorsett, and for that, Millie was grateful. She would have to wait for Ivy’s company, but she welcomed any friendly face, even if that face held the stern expression of a displeased despot.

Millie was meant to be dressing for dinner when Lady Philippa sailed into her room, midnight-blue silk skirts billowing around her like a wave.

‘You look positively gaunt. And why are you holding yourself so stiffly? You are injured. What happened? Did you hurt yourself while training?’

Millie was only in her chemise. She quickly turned to face Philippa, so her mentor couldn’t see the bandages. As much as she wanted Philippa’s empathy, she wasn’t sure unleashing the full force of the duchess’ ire on Patricia would be wise. ‘I am quite well, Your Grace. Perhaps a trifle tired.’

Philippa walked up to her, ignoring Penny, who stepped hastily back. She grasped Millie’s chin in surprisingly gentle fingers and turned her head one way, then the other. Tsking like an enraged hen, she swept her gaze from Millie’s feet up to the artfully piled curls on top of her head.

‘What has Patricia done?’

Of course, Philippa would guess the truth immediately. Millie bit her trembling lip as tears threatened. ‘It’s nothing. Really. It didn’t even interfere with my training. Or at least, not much.’ She would not fall apart in front of her mentor. Philippa would think her a weak fool.

‘Turn around so I can assess the damage. If I had known your stepmother was going to hurt you, I would have insisted you cease your training until you were healed. Let me see what she’s done.’

Millie realised the futility of resistance. If Philippa wanted to see her back, she would see her back. She dutifully turned around, thankful the worst of her lashes were hidden beneath bandages.

‘Malicious little bitch.’ Phillipa hissed. ‘How dare she whip you like a dog!’

Millie cleared the waver from her voice, refusing to be weak. ‘It’s not so bad. It will heal. And I was able to train through it. I actually think it was good for me to focus through the pain.’

‘Some of these gashes should have been stitched, Millicent. She didn’t call for a doctor?’

‘She didn’t allow anyone to touch me. The second session caused the worst of it, I think.’ Millie bit her cheek with ruthless determination. They were just wounds. They would heal. There was no need for messy emotions.

Phillipa’s harsh inhale was a strange benediction. To know someone shared her outrage at such injustice was like cool water on her burning skin.

‘I have a salve, Your Grace. It will help with the healing. Minimise the scars, I hope.’ Penny spoke quietly, her hand clasped in front of a snowy white apron.

Philippa turned to stare at the maid. ‘What is your name?’

‘Penny, Your Grace.’

Millie had to hand it to her maid. She was a courageous woman to speak so calmly to the duchess.

‘Get me that salve, Penny. Now.’

Penny rushed out of Millie’s bedroom, returning quickly with a small pot in her hand. Philippa took the offered pot, removed the lid, and sniffed. ‘Camphor and linseed?’ She raised a dark-black brow at the maid. Though Millie never asked Philippa’s age, her dramatic colouring, smooth skin, and lustrous hair made it impossible to guess if she was in her third, fourth, or even fifth decade. One thing was certain; she was stunning. And bloody intimidating. But Penny stood her ground.

‘That and some honey and lard. A few other odds and ends my mother’s never shared with me. It works, Your Grace. I swear it.’

Philippa narrowed her gaze. ‘Hmm. I’m inclined to believe you. And can you keep secrets as well as you heal wounds?’

Penny nodded. ‘I’m loyal to my mistress, Your Grace. Maids with wagging tongues rarely have steady incomes. In my experience.’

‘Hmm. Well, in my experience, words are cheap. Actions show the true character of a person. You will hear many things that cannot be shared. With anyone. Starting right now, Penny. Can you manage that?’

‘I’ve seen and heard a great many secrets, Your Grace. I know how to bury one so deep, it becomes lost forever.’ Penny’s hands shook a bit before she clasped them tightly together.

‘Interesting turn of phrase.’ Philippa tapped her crimson-stained lips with a finger before turning to Millie. ‘Keep this one around, Millicent.’ She handed the pot back to Penny. ‘You’ll apply that tonight and every night until the wounds heal.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Penny ducked her head.

Philippa was usually right about most things. Millie guessed her assessment of Penny was bang on.

‘Right. Now that’s sorted, we should discuss my meeting with the Queen.’ Philippa ignored Penny’s gasp, but her gaze did pause on the maid long enough for Penny to turn and find a flannel cloth that needed folding. Philippa’s attention returned to Millie. ‘But if you need a moment, I understand. Tears are not a weakness, Millicent. Sometimes, they are the only way we have of releasing emotion.’

Millie’s throat ached. She swallowed hard. ‘No. I am well. Please, continue.’ If she let herself cry now, she wasn’t sure she would stop.

Philippa didn’t speak right away. She watched Millie with her keen eyes missing nothing until finally she nodded. ‘As you like. The Queen had some important information to share.’

Millie lifted her arms so Penny could pull the corset over her head and position it around her waist.

‘I’ll be careful, miss,’ Penny murmured as she carefully tightened the torture device, mindful of Millie’s wounds. Millie had to give the girl credit. She had recovered quickly from realising the duchess was a confidante of Queen Victoria.

Millie wheezed out a breath. ‘Pray tell, what did she say?’

Philippa’s sharp gaze speared Millie. ‘It would appear our little wedding party will be host to several likely candidates in our investigation. Our prime suspect, and the man we are tasked to focus on, is Lord Franklin St George. A baron, I believe, and someone you are acquainted with, which is immensely helpful.’

Millie’s shoulders tightened, but she forced her face to remain impassive. ‘I’ve known him since childhood, Your Grace. But I doubt he’ll want to speak with me. We have a… history. Not a pleasant one.’

Philippa rolled her eyes. ‘Must I remind you again to desist with the “Your Grace” nonsense? Your name is Millicent. Mine is Philippa. Hers is Penny. Let’s not be silly.’

Millie shook her head, her anxiety dissipating in the light of her mentor’s obvious disgust with titles. It didn’t escape her that Philippa’s dim view of social hierarchy was an opinion only the highest of the beau monde could afford to espouse. ‘Of course, Philippa. But my statement still stands. If our focus is Lord Franklin St George, I doubt I will be of much help to you. The man despises me.’

Philippa laughed; a rich melody filling the room. ‘There is a thin line between love and hate, Millicent. Don’t forget. I was a guest of Lord Bradford’s at Everly Manor as well. I saw the way St George stared at you during our fortnight of revelry. He despises you because he cannot have you.’

Millie snorted. ‘He already had me, Philippa.’ Her gaze flicked over to Penny, but the maid was busy shaking out the folds of Millie’s evening gown. A copper silk confection that almost perfectly matched her hair. The neckline would not be so scandalous on another woman, but with Millie’s generous curves, she would be lucky to keep her girls contained for the evening. Thinking back to her moment on the couch with Lord Drake, his hand caressing her breast, his mouth claiming her own, she felt suddenly overwarm. With an iron will, she pulled her thoughts back to the conversation. ‘Once Franklin plucked my bloom – as it were – his interest dissolved. He longed for a sweeter blossom. One with significantly more to offer in her dowry than myself.’

Philippa nodded. ‘Exactly. He abandoned you for a richer prize, but according to the Queen, that well has run dry due in no small part to St George’s penchant for gambling badly. Apparently, he has markers all over London. And then there are his mistresses. Three, to my counting. You are the one who got away, Millicent. And while he may have momentarily had your body, he never had you. Let’s be clear on that.’

She was right. Millie was infatuated with Franklin as a child, but it was the obsession of a silly girl. He never claimed her heart. Not really. And he never would. She hadn’t realised it until Philippa made her point.

‘You are very insightful, Philippa. It’s highly annoying.’

‘I know. But back to the mission. Franklin St George is desperate for blunt, but I also think he needs to prove his appeal. Specifically, by reclaiming the one girl he can’t have. You.’

Millie felt a hard ball of dread form in her belly. ‘I’m soon to be married, Philippa. I can’t possibly spend the week leading up to my wedding seducing another man.’

Philippa moved out of Penny’s way as the maid brought the dress to Millie. ‘You are soon to be married to a man you have no affection for. A man who holds no flame for you. What harm can come from innocent flirtation? It isn’t as though you are actually going to engage in an affair with St George.’

The thought was horrifying. Though she had once believed St George to be the most desirable man she’d ever known, the idea of pressing her lips against Franklin’s now made Millie want to gag in revulsion.

Instead, she imagined much firmer lips in a face divided by a ragged scar. She felt the rush of warmth between her thighs.

Absolutely not. The last thing I need to do is dissolve into lust over my ridiculous, pompous ass of a fiancé.

Thinking about what a fool she’d been with Franklin reminded Millie how lust could lead her down a path she had no wish to tread. While she might want to engage in her desire for the major general, the danger of giving herself to him – as she had almost done in the study like a completely besotted fool – would grant him a power he could wield over her without mercy. It was impossible. She had come far too close, but she would redouble her efforts at resisting him and focus her time and attention on what really mattered. Her mission for the Queen. If anything could douse wicked desires, certainly it should be thoughts of Queen Victoria’s displeasure at a failed mission.

Millie swallowed before lifting her arms and allowing Penny to pull the dress over her head. The maid settled it around her hips and began the arduous task of fastening a million tiny buttons.

‘Or am I mistaken?’ The mischievous glint in Philippa’s cobalt gaze made Millie pause.

Did the duchess guess at Millie’s growing fascination with Major General Drake? Surely not. Though Philippa had just proven her skills at reading people. It really was infuriating.

Millie tried to keep her face impassive. ‘I’m merely suggesting I try to preserve my decimated reputation by not acting like a trollop. The beau monde already thinks me wanton. Do I now become an unfaithful wife before our vows are even uttered?’

Why was she fighting this? Pretending to have some kind of affection for St George might be the perfect way to get Drake to beg off. She didn’t imagine he would tolerate infidelity. But her whole body shuddered in revulsion at the thought. She couldn’t. Not with Franklin.

‘For a woman with no interest in her future husband, you certainly seem intent on sticking to your vows… Vows you’ve yet to say, might I add.’

Millie rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t believe St George has any interest in me, but if he does, I have no wish to throw myself at a man who rejected me the moment I spread my thighs.’

Penny made a strangled sound deep in her throat.

‘Sorry, Penny. I am honest to a fault, and St George is a disgusting, despicable, reprehensible bounder. In fact, you should be very careful to avoid finding yourself alone with him. He is not safe, do you understand?’

Penny nodded. ‘Yes, miss.’

‘Which is exactly why you must entice him to spill his secrets, Millicent. And then we’ll deliver justice. I swear it.’ Philippa nodded her head. ‘If you can think of a better way to get him to talk, then I’m all for it. But there are times we must do terrible things, Millicent. This is the price we pay to hold evildoers accountable for their crimes. Are you up to the task?’

Millie straightened her shoulders as Penny fastened the last few buttons. ‘I will not fail you, Philippa. But neither will I become someone I cannot respect.’

Philippa tapped her fingers against her hip. ‘Fine. Hannah refused to listen to me as well. I must be cursed to only train disobedient, stubborn women.’

‘Women who are just like you,’ Millie countered.

Philippa’s lips curled at the corners. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but Millie counted it as a win. ‘Are you ready? Shall we descend for dinner? I can’t wait to engage in a stimulating conversation with your stepmother.’

‘As much as I would love to see that, I don’t think it’s worth the effort, Philippa.’ The last thing she needed was for Philippa to instigate a war with Patricia. Her stepmother’s threat loomed heavy over Millie’s head. If Philippa upset Patricia, she knew the horrible woman would make good on spilling her secrets to The Star . It was a risk Millie couldn’t take and the only reason she’d submitted to Patricia’s horrific behaviour. ‘Nothing you say will change Patricia. She is a monster who is best left alone.’

‘We’ll see, Millicent. You’ve done a wonderful job, Penny. Please extend my compliments to your mother on her salve.’ Philippa swept around and walked out the door before either Millie or Penny could respond.

Millie glanced at Penny and shrugged. ‘You’ve won yourself the favour of the Duchess of Dorsett, Penny. No easy feat.’

Penny looked a little flummoxed. ‘You better hurry, miss. You wouldn’t want to make her wait.’

Millie nodded, gave her new maid a smile, then turned and hurried after Philippa for what was sure to be a disastrous dinner.

Dinner was a complete disaster. Drake spent the evening torn between wanting to ravish Millicent, strangle Patricia, and uncover whatever secrets Lady Philippa Winterbourne was hiding in her wickedly sharp brain.

Lieutenant General Killian had told Drake his suspicions about Hannah being involved in investigating crimes months ago. It was an idea Drake believed to be preposterous. But then the woman had gone and killed Lord Cavendale with all the skill and confidence of a trained soldier. Drake believed Hannah’s protector, Lady Philippa, had something to do with it.

And now the duchess has taken Millicent under her wing.

But it defied reason to think his fiancée might be a part of such violent work. She was a gently bred lady, after all. Yet, it would answer a number of questions building about her confidence, courage, and physical skills.

A lady who rides like the Devil, is bold enough to challenge me, and has the physique of an avenging Valkyrie could very well be capable of a great many things. She bloody-well said as much in my study.

But that only lead him to recall what other things occurred between them in his study. Sinfully delicious things. With so many disturbing thoughts swirling in his mind, it left very little time to appreciate the succulent venison, crisp roasted potatoes, sweet peas, and pheasant pie. Some of his favourites.

Millicent’s appetite didn’t seem bothered by their meeting. She filled her plate as each course was served. When Patricia sent her stepdaughter a scathing look, pointing at Millicent’s plate with her knife, Drake almost launched himself across the table and brained the woman with a gravy boat. But he refrained. Because he was a gentleman, damn it. And the gravy boat would be ruined. A terrible waste.

‘You haven’t touched your meal, Drake. I recall you always having a robust appetite when we were marching through Afghanistan.’ Reynard’s twinkling gaze didn’t miss much. It was one of the reasons he was such an asset to the prime minister’s small band of private investigators. And such a pain in the arse as a friend.

‘Too much rich food makes a man fat and lazy, Reynard. You might want to follow my example.’ Drake cut a slice of venison and dutifully chewed without tasting the well-seasoned meat.

‘I can’t help but notice how lovely your betrothed looks tonight.’ Reynard glanced down the table at Millicent, ignoring the growl Drake was unable to suppress. ‘Are you sure this is to be a marriage of convenience?’

Drake knew what Reynard was asking. Was Millicent available for an interested and discreet suitor?

‘It is going to be a marriage where my wife does not have an affair with one of my closest friends.’

Reynard raised a thick eyebrow. ‘Ah. I see. I thought you had sworn off all women.’

‘I have. But even if I don’t intend to fall for Millicent’s charms, I have no wish to be cuckolded. Especially not by you. Perhaps we should focus more on our investigation and less on my wife-to-be, Reynard. I’d hate to test your aim in a duel.’

Reynard chuckled. ‘Stand down, old man. I’m not about to poach a friend’s wife. Not without permission.’

‘You do not have mine.’ Drake grabbed a crystal goblet of wine, gulping a swallow and wishing for whiskey.

‘I see that. Consider the matter closed.’

‘Good.’ But Drake hated the possession bubbling under his skin. How had this woman gotten into his blood and made it boil? He was becoming obsessed. It was totally unacceptable. And it would stop. Immediately.

When Drake returned from the war to the news his fiancée – thinking him dead or close to it – had married his brother, he was devastated. When he realised his brother also hoped Drake had met a bloody end in the desert, he was enraged. Drake was seven years older than his brother. They had never been close, but he didn’t imagine his own flesh and blood would long for his untimely demise so the snivelling bastard could inherit.

Like a na?ve idiot, Drake thought Nora loved him. When she sent him off to the war, tears streaming down her face, a letter claiming she would wait for his return forever pressed carefully against Drake’s heart, he knew he was the luckiest man alive. For the next two years, anything soft in him was burned away except his love for Nora. He committed sins earning him a seat next to the Devil in hell, endured torture cruel enough to break most of their men, and saw his faith in humanity slowly die one innocent victim at a time.

In the Anglo-Afghan war, there were no heroes, only once honourable men drowning in a sea of corruption. Nora was Drake’s only hope of innocence, love, loyalty. Her promise to wait for him kept Drake sane in the stinking hole their battalion was forced to share when the Afghan soldiers took them prisoner. During the worst of his torture, he closed his eyes and remembered Nora’s lilting voice, her scent of sweet peonies, her soft fingers on his arm, and her warm lips pressed against his own.

But he had been wrong. Nora didn’t love him. She loved his title. One brother was just as good as the other to Nora as long as that man held the wealth and power of the Earl of Tetly.

Enraged and intent on confronting her, Drake arrived on his own front doorstep – as his brother had taken over the London townhouse – and demanded an explanation for Nora’s actions. When she first saw his ruined face, she nearly fainted. Nora grabbed his brother’s arm and hid behind him as if Drake were some kind of hideous monster.

‘I don’t care about the title. I would never marry a beast like you. No woman would. You’ll never produce an heir. We’ll inherit everything one day. I’m happy to wait.’ She fairly hissed the words at him as if he were the one to blame. As if he were the guilty party in this.

He threw them out of his house that night, though his brother begged him to act like a gentleman and show some mercy. It was only the presence of his commanding officer and best friend, Lieutenant General Killian, who stopped him from committing fratricide on that horrific day.

He swore to never again trust a woman, to never allow his heart to be swayed by a pretty face, and to avoid the treacherous fairer sex at all costs. He also developed a rather dim view of younger brothers.

Jealousy consumed him for months. Food tasted like sand. The sun held no warmth. Life was just something he suffered through a day at a time until the relief of death. He lived in complete darkness. But slowly, with the help of Killian and the missions assigned to him by the prime minister, he found purpose again. His life was muted, lacking the bright colours of his past, but it was also fulfilling to a degree. And quiet. Controlled. Living in the shadows provided him with the peace of solitude. He learned well from his disastrous mistake. Never trifle with the plague of love if one wished to survive.

But now, Millicent threatened his carefully constructed calm. She shone like a beacon in the darkness, and he was terrified to walk into her light. What might be illuminated?

Focusing on the mission and ignoring the charming, stunning, funny, intelligent woman at the end of the table was his only way forward.

Still, something stirred within him. Forgotten desire. An echo of love’s glory. A memory of its warmth.

Since when did I let fancy run free, polluting cold, clear reason?

Since meeting Millicent Whittenburg.

They must have a distant marriage. It was the only way he could maintain his sanity. But did that mean he couldn’t indulge in his lust before sending her away? His imagination spun at the idea of stripping Millicent naked and licking every one of her freckles. Gorging on her cream and cinnamon skin.

‘Franklin St George will be arriving tomorrow with his wife.’ Reynard’s words destroyed Drake’s erotic fantasy, pulling him back to the present.

Drake forced his mind to focus on the mission. ‘Yes. We need to watch him carefully. The prime minister believes St George might be working in league with his uncle.’

‘Really? The Earl of Scarborough might be involved? He and Lord Chancellor Hargrave are old cronies, are they not? That could be quite the scandal.’ Reynard took a healthy portion of pheasant pie and cut into the flaky pastry.

‘That is why we are on this job and not Scotland Yard. Who knows how far up the chain this treachery reaches?’ Drake speared an unsuspecting pea, imagining it was a very small version of St George’s head.

‘Generally, I hate wedding ceremonies, and wedding parties are even worse, but I’d put money on yours beating all others, Drake. You should be proud of yourself for turning a celebration of nuptials into the investigation of our careers.’ Reynard waggled his eyebrows and smiled around the food in his mouth. Annoyingly, the expression was charming on him when any other person would look disgusting.

‘Quite.’ Drake raised an eyebrow at Reynard.

He should be excited about the opportunity to determine who was orchestrating this sex-trade ring. Instead, he found his mind – and gaze – wandering to Millicent.

She looked up from her plate and caught him staring. Slowly, she lifted her spoon to her mouth, licking gravy from the silver cutlery like a cat lapping at milk. Or a courtesan licking… something else. Drake’s skin tightened as blood rushed to his cock.

Damnation!

She could have easily slid her gaze over to Reynard – as most women would – but instead, she remained locked onto him.

How was he supposed to keep her at arm’s length when all he wanted to do was grab her hand, haul her up to his room, and barricade the door against anyone trying to interrupt them? She would be the death of him. And for once, he wasn’t opposed.

The next four days of wedding celebrations would be the death of Millie. She was exhausted. Making her excuses after their meal, she claimed a megrim to avoid the dreaded after-dinner gathering and escaped to her rooms.

While Millie enjoyed socialising, a smaller group – especially their particular combination of guests – could be far more challenging to navigate than a large crush. She hoped Philippa didn’t kill her stepmother over sherry. A distinct possibility given the daggers Philippa was throwing Patricia’s way during dinner. More importantly, she hoped Patricia held her sharp tongue. She was far more likely to draw blood with it than Philippa might with her myriad of hidden weapons.

Millie called for Penny to come and help her prepare for bed when she first reached her room, but the maid had yet to arrive. She wandered around her bedchambers, her fingers trailing along the papered walls, over the smooth wood of her writing desk, along a dustless windowsill. She hated to admit it, but Major General Drake’s country estate was perfectly suited to Millie. The colours of her rooms, the Gothic darkness of the stone edifice, the understated elegance of Drake’s furnishings. If she had been given carte blanche to redecorate, she wouldn’t change a thing. It was oddly frustrating that a man so horribly matched to her had the perfect house.

She let her fingers slide over the oak door connecting her room with his. It was disconcerting to be so close to Drake’s sleeping quarters. With a twist of her wrist and push of her hand, she would be in his bedroom.

I should waltz in there and give the man a heart attack.

The last thing Drake would expect was a brazen invitation from Millie.

He’d probably slam the door in my face and lock it against me.

Which was best. Engaging in her ever-growing desires for Drake would hardly encourage a distant marriage. Millie purposefully turned her back on the dratted door. She toed off her slippers and walked to the fireplace, letting the cheerful flames warm her.

The sound of her door opening and shutting alerted her to Penny’s arrival. ‘I hope you brought your salve, Penny. I want nothing more than to rid myself of this dress and go to sleep.’

‘What a splendid plan.’ The rough growl most decidedly did not belong to Penny.

Millie spun around to see Major General Drake still in his dinner jacket. He leaned against the door leading to the hall. All the moisture in her mouth dried in an instant, along with every logical thought in her brain.

Bloody hell.

‘For a gently bred lady, you certainly have a filthy mouth, Millicent.’

Millie felt her cheeks heat. ‘Oh dear. Did I say that out loud?’

‘You did.’

It was then she noticed the small pot in his hands. Penny’s salve.

‘What are you doing here? With that.’ She nodded to his hands.

‘Penny refused to tell me what ailed you. A loyal creature, that woman. Still, with my masterful skills at discerning truth from lies, I was able to deduce your injured state.’

Millie was at a loss. ‘Truly?’ A stupid response, but it was all she could think to say.

Drake shrugged, his powerful shoulders shifting under the fine material of his jacket. ‘Also, she accidentally dropped the salve when I intercepted her in the hall. I gave her the night off despite her protests. Her willingness to defy orders reminded me quite a bit of you, Millicent.’

Millie’s cheeks heated at the insult that felt remarkably closer to a compliment.

‘I’m to act as your lady’s maid tonight.’